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UNIVERSITY  EDITION 


OF 


THAT 


civil: 


Ai  Preserved  and  P 

LAW  A^    THE   GENIUS  OF  CIVJUZATFON. 

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TEN    VOLUMES 


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UNIVERSITY  EDITION 


Crowneb  /llbaeterpiecee 

OF 

Xtteraturc 

THAT   HAVE   ADVANCED    CIVILIZATION 


As  Preserved  and  Presented  by 

Z\)C  Morlt)'0  36e0t  IBq^vc^q 

From  the  Earliest  Period 
to     the     Present      Time 


DAVID  J.  BREWER 
Editor 

EDWARD  A.  ALLEN 

WILLIAM  SCHUYLER 

Associate  Editors 


^ 


TEN     VOLUMES 
VOL*  VI 


HT.     IX)fIH 

FKRI>.   P.   KA.ISER 

1003 


"dniversft^  E&ftfon 


SPECIAL   TESTIMONIAL    SET 


c©pyright  1900 
Copyright  igoa 

BV 

FERD.  P.  KAISER 


All  right*  reserve  J 


Editor 


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Publisher 


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THE  ADVISORY  COUNCIL  o'/'^<:. 

SIR  WALTER  BESANT.  M.  A.,  F.  S.  A., 

Soho  Square,  London  W.,  England, 

PROFESSOR  KUNO  FRANCKE,  Ph.  D., 

Department  of  German,  Harvard  University,  Cambridge,  Mass. 

HIRAM  CORSON,  A,  M..  LL.  D., 

Department  of  English  Literature,  Cornell  University,  Ithaca,  N.  Y. 

WILLIAM  DRAPER  LEWIS,  Ph.  D., 
Dean  of  the  Department  of  Law, 

University  of  Pennsylvania,  Philadelphia,  Pa. 

RICHARD  GOTTHEIL,  Ph.  D., 

Professor  of  Oriental  Languages, 

Columbia  University,  in  the  City  of  New  York. 

MRS.  LOUISE  CHANDLER  MOULTON, 

Author  «  Swallow  Flights, »  «  Bed-Time  Stories, »  etc.  Boston,  Mass. 

WILLIAM  VINCENT  BYARS, 

Manager  The  Valley  Press  Bureau,  St  Louis. 

F.  M.  CRUNDEN,  A.  M., 

Librarian    St.     Louis    Public    Library;     President    (1890)    Ambrican 
Library  Association. 

MAURICE  FRANCIS  EGAN,  A.  M.,  LL.  D., 
Professor  of  English  and  Literature, 

Catholic  University  of  America,  Washington,  D.  C. 

ALC6e  FORTIER,  Lit.  D., 

Professor  of  Romance  Languages,  Tulane  University,  New  Orleans,  La. 

SHELDON  JACKSON,  D.  D.,  LL.  D., 

Bureau  of  Education,  Washington,  D  C. 

A.  MARSHALL  ELLIOTT,  Ph.  D..  LL.  D., 
Professor  of  Romance  Languages, 

Johns  Hopkins  University,  Baltimore,  Md. 
WILLIAM  P.  TRENT.  M.  A.. 

Professor  of  English  Literature, 

Columbia  University,  in  the  City  of  New  York. 

CHARLES    MILLS   OAYLEY.    T.ttt.  T'  , 

Department  of  English,  University  of  California,  Berkeley,  Cal. 

RICHARD  JONES,  Ph.  D.. 

Department   of  English,  w'<r^  Austin  H.  Merrill,  deceased.  Department 
of   Elocution,  Vanderbilt  University,  Nashville,  Tenn. 

W.  STUART  SYMINGTON.  Jr.,  Ph.D., 

Professor  of  Romauce  Languages,         Amherst  College,  Amherst,  Mass. 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 
VOLUME   VI 

LIVED  PAGE 

Hallam,  Henry  i777-i859  2045 

The  First  Books  Printed  in  Europe 
Poets  Who  Made  Shakespeare  Possible 

Hamerton,  Philip  Gilbert  1834-1894  2056 

Women  and  Marriage 
To  a  Lady  of  High  Culture 

Hamilton,  Alexander  i7S7-i8o4  2062 

On  War  between  the  States  of  the  Union 

Hare,  J.  C,  and  A.  W.  1795-1855:  1792-1834  2070 

That  It  Is  Better  to  Laugh  than  to  Cry 

Harrington,  James  1611-1677  2077 

Of  a  Free  State 

The  Principles  of  Government 

Harrison,  Frederic  1S31-  ao8o 

On  the  Choice  of  Books 

Hawkesworth,  John  «7I5-i773  2105 

On  Gossip  and  Tattling 

Hawthorne,  Nathaniel  1804-1864  2 no 

The  Hall  of  Fantasy 
A  Rill  from  the  Town  Pump 

Hazlitt,  William  1778-188©  2128 

On  the  Periodical  Essayists 

Hkgkl,  Georg  Wilhelm  Friedrich  1770-1831  2145 

History  as  the  Manifestation  of  Spirit 
The  Relation  of  Individuals  to  the  World's  History 
Law  and  Liberty 
Religion,  Art,  and  Philosophy 


LIVED  PAGE 

Heine,  Heinrich  1799-1856  2153 

Dialogue  on  the  Thames 
His  View  of  Goethe 
Napoleon 

Helmholtz,  Herman  Ludwig  FeIidinand  von  1821-1894  2164 

Universities,  English,  French,  and  German 

Helps,  Sir  Arthur  1813-1875  2170 

On  the  Art  of  Living  with  Others 
Greatness 
How  History  Should  Be  Read 

Herder,  Johann  Gottfried  von  1744-1803  2180 

The  Sublimity  of  Primitive  Poetry 
Marriage  as  the  Highest  Friendship 

Herschel,  Sir  John  1792-1871  2186 

Science  as  a  Civilizer 
The  Taste  for  Reading 

Hillebrand,  Karl  1829-1884  2193 

Goethe's  View  of  Art  and  Nature 

HoBBES,  Thomas  1588-1679  2197 

«The  Desire  and  Will  to  Hurt» 
Brutality  in  Human  Nature 

Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell  1809-1894  2201 

My  First  Walk  with  the  Schoolmistress 
Extracts  from  My  Private  Journal 
My  Last  Walk  with  the  Schoolmistress 
On  Dandies 
On  «  Chryso- Aristocracy  * 

Hood,  Thomas  1798-1845  2218 

An  Undertaker 
The  Morning  Call 

Hook,  Theodore  1788-1841  2224 

On  Certain  Atrocities  of  Humor 

Hooker,  Richard  ^1553-1600  2229 

The  Law  which  Angels  Do  Work  by 
Education  as  a  Development  of  the  Soul 


Vll 

LIVED  PAGE 

Hughes,  John  1677-1720  2234 

The  Wonderful  Nature  of  Excellent  Minds 

Hugo,  Victor  1802-1885  2239 

The  End  of  Talleyrand's  Brain 
The  Death  of  Balzac 
A  Retrospect 
Waterloo  —  «  Quot  Libras  in  Duce  * 

Humboldt,  Alexander  VON  1769-1859  2251 

Man 

Hume,  David  1711-1776  2258 

Of  the  Dignity  or  Meanness  of  Human  Nature 
Of  the  First  Principles  of  Government 
Of  Interest 

Hunt,  Leigh  1784-1859  2269 

«The  Wittiest  of  English  Poets » 
Charles  Lamb 
Light  and  Color 
Petrarch  and  Laura 
Moral  and  Personal  Courage 

Huxley,  Thomas  Henry  1825-1895  2276 

On  the  Method  of  Zadig 

Ingalls,  John  James  1833-1900  3291 

Blue  Grass 

Irving,  Washington  1783-1859  2301 

Bracebridge  Hall 
The  Busy  Man 
Gentility 
Fortune  Telling 
Love  Charms 
The  Broken  Heart 
Stratford-on-Avon 

Jameson,  Anna  Brownell  1794-1860  2330 

Ophelia,  Poor  Ophelia 

Jay,  John  1745-1829  2337 

Concerning    Dangers    from    Foreign    Force   and    In- 
fluence 


vm 


LIVED 

Jebb,  Richard  Claverhouse  1841- 

Homer  and  the  Epic 

Jefferies,  Richard  1848-1887 

A  Roman  Brook 

Jefferson,  Thomas  1743-1826 

Truth  and  Toleration  against  Error 

Jeffrey,  Lord  Francis  '773-^850 

Watt  and  the  Work  of  Steam 
On  Good  and  Bad  Taste 

Jerome,  Jerome  K.  1859- 

On  Getting  On  in  the  World 

Jerrold,  Douglas  1803-1857 

Barbarism  in  Birdcage  Walk 

Johnson,  Samuel  1709-1784 

Omar,  the  Son  of  Hassan 
Dialogue  in  a  Vulture's  Nest 
On  the  Advantages  of  Living  in  a  Garret 
Some  of  Shakespeare's  Faults 
Parallel  between  Pope  and  Dryden 

JONSON,  Ben  ^.  1 573-1637 

On  Shakespeare  —  On  the  Difference  of  Wits 
On  Malignancy  in  Studies 
Of  Good  and  Evil 

Junius  (Sir  Philip  Francis?)  1740-1818 

To  the  Duke  of  Grafton 

Kant,  Immanuel  1724-1804 

The  Canon  of  Pure  Reason 

Keightley,  Thomas  1789-1872 

On  Middle-Age  Romance 
Arabian  Romance 
How  to  Read  Old-English  Poetry 

Kempis,  Thomas  k  c.  1 380-1471 

Of  Wisdom  and  Providence  in  Our  Actions 
Of  the  Profit  of  Adversity 


PAGE 
2342 


2350 

2354 
2360 

2369 

3375 
2382 


2401 


t4o8 


2414 


2422 


2428 


LIVED  PACE 

Kempis,  Thomas  A  —  Continued 

Of  Avoiding  Rash  Judgment 

Of  Works  Done  in  Charity 

Of  Bearing  with  the  Defects  of  Others 

Of  a  Retired  Life 

KiNGSLEY,  Charles  1819-1875  a434 

A  Charm  of  Birds 

Krapotkin,  Prince  1842-  2441 

The  Course  of  Civilization 

La  Bruy^re,  Jean  de  1645-1696  2443 

On  the  Character  of  Mankind 
On  Human  Nature  in  Womankind 


FULL-PAGE  ILLUSTRATIONS 

VOLUME  VI 


PACK 

Law  as  the  Genius  of  Civilization  (Photogravure)  Frontispiece 
Petrarch's  First  Meeting  with  Laura 

(Photogravure)  2269 
Watt  Discovering  the  Power  of  Steam 

(Photogravure)  2360 

Charles  Kingsley  (Portrait,  Photogravure)  2434 


2045 


HENRY  HALLAM 

(1777- 1859) 

(allam's  <* Literary  Essays  and  Characters,**  published  in  1852, 
are  made  up  of  selections  from  his  « Introduction  to  the 
Literature  of  Europe  in  the  Fifteenth,  Sixteenth,  and  Seven- 
teenth Centuries,**  —  a  work  which,  until  Taine's  "History  of  Eng- 
lish Literature  **  appeared,  held  the  first  place  among  books  of  its 
class.  Hallam's  style  is  as  unlike  Taine's  as  possible  and  his  method 
is  the  antithesis  of  Taine's,  but  he  preceded,  if  he  did  not  instruct, 
Taine  in  the  classical  method  of  dividing  and  subdividing  a  great 
subject  into  essays  forming  its  topical  units,  so  that  each  topic  is 
presented  in  its  wholeness,  as  well  as  in  its  connection  with  the 
larger  whole.  Hallam's  "Literature  of  Europe**  —  which  the  general 
public  has  accepted  as  his  masterpiece — becomes,  as  a  result  of  this 
method,  a  true  sequence  of  essays,  each  of  which  has  an  individuality 
of  its  own,  while  in  many  of  them  this  individuality  is  so  well  defined 
that  they  are  fully  as  capable  of  standing  alone,  outside  of  their  con- 
nection, as  any  detached  literary  essay  of  De  Quincey  or  Macaulay. 
As  an  essayist,  Hallam  deals  in  facts  to  a  much  greater  extent  than 
Macaulay  or  any  of  those  essayists  who  formed  their  style  as  critical 
reviewers.  His  work  represents  original  research,  wide  and  deep. 
Professor  Edward  Robinson  says  that  « in  science  and  theology, 
mathematics  and  poetry,  metaphysics  and  law,  he  is  a  competent  and 
always  a  fair,  if  not  a  profound,  critic.**  and  adds  that  «  the  great  quali- 
ties displayed  in  his  work,  conscientiousness,  accuracy,  and  enormous 
reading,  have  been  universally  acknowledged.**  This  is  especially 
true  of  the  "History  of  European  Literature,**  which  shows  a  range  of 
reading  equaled  only  by  Gibbon.  Hallam's  "View  of  the  Middle 
Ages  >'  and  his  "  Constitutional  History  of  England  **  trace  the  devel- 
opment of  modern  England  from  the  Feudal  system  to  its  present 
form  of  aristocratic  constitutional  government.  It  lacks  the  general 
interest  which  Blackstone  knows  how  to  give  to  even  the  most  ab- 
stract subject,  but  it  has  become  a  recognized  authority  among  Eng- 
lish lawyers  and  public  men,  and  if  it  is  seldomer  read  than  the  "History 
of  European  Literature,**  it  is  not  less  widely  distributed  in  England 
and  America.  In  both  countries,  Hallam  holds  his  place  on  the  shelves 
with  Gibbon,  as  he  deserves  to  do  because  of  a  faculty  of  amassing 
and  using  details  in  which  Gibbon  alone  surpasses  him. 


2046  HENRY    HALLAM 

Hallatn  was  born  at  Windsor,  England,  in  1777.  After  taking  his 
degree  at  Christ  Church,  Oxford,  in  1799,  he  studied  at  the  Inner 
Temple  and  was  called  to  the  bar ;  but  although  his  knowledge  of  the 
principles  of  law  was  profound,  he  never  practiced  his  profession. 
His  life  was  devoted  to  literature  and  to  the  historical  research  which 
appears  so  unmistakably  in  his  three  great  works:  «A  View  of  the 
State  of  Europe  during  the  Middle' Ages, ^>  1818;  "The  Constitutional 
History  of  England,*^  1827;  and  the  « Introduction  to  the  Literature  of 
Europe,"  eleven  years  later.  His  eldest  son,  Arthur  Henry  Hallam, 
a  young  man  of  brilliant  promise,  died  at  the  age  of  twenty-one,  and 
was  immortalized  by  Tennyson's  "In  Memoriam."  In  1834  Hallam 
published  "The  Remains  in  Prose  and  Verse  of  Arthur  Henry  Hal- 
lam, with  a  Sketch  of  His  Life."  The  "Literary  Essays  and  Charac- 
ters" already  referred  to  followed  this  as  the  last  of  his  important 
publications.  He  died  January  21st,  1859,  surviving  all  the  great 
Whigs  of  the  first  half  of  the  century  except  Macaulay,  who  died  in 
December  of  the  same  year,  and  Brougham,  who  lingered  in  sec- 
ond childhood  until  1868.  Although  Hallam  took  no  direct  part  in 
politics,  he  was  himself  one  of  the  "great  Whigs"  of  his  generation, 
but  his  Whiggery  involved  no  leaning  towards  Democracy.  He  be- 
lieved in  the  English  constitution  as  an  evolution  of  national  charac- 
ter and  in  Aristocracy  as  a  part  of  it,  but  he  had  the  genuine  Whig 
hatred  of  despotism.  His  death  and  that  of  Macaulay  in  the  same 
year  left  the  potent  Whig  idea  of  the  eighteenth  century  without  ade- 
quate representation  in  the  literature  of  England  during  the  second 
half  of  the  nineteenth  century.  Old  school  Whiggery  was  succeeded 
by  a  quarter  of  a  century  of  "  Liberalism  "  which,  as  its  logic  worked 
out  at  the  close  of  the  century,  has  demonstrated  itself  as  something 
far  less  masculine  than  the  political  idea,  which  from  the  days  of 
Chatham  to  the  middle  of  the  nineteenth  century  was  so  decisive  a 
factor  in  the  progress  of  the  world.  W.  V.  B. 


THE   FIRST   BOOKS  PRINTED   IN  EUROPE 

ABOUT  the  end  of  the  fourteenth  century  we  find  a  practice  of 
taking  impressions  from  engraved  blocks  of  wood;  some- 
times for  playing  cards,  which  were  not  generally  used  long 
before  that  time,  sometimes  for  rude  cuts  of  saints.  The  latter 
were  frequently  accompanied  by  a  few  lines  of  letters  cut  in  the 
block.  Gradually  entire  pages  were  impressed  in  this  manner; 
and  thus  began  what  are  called  block  books,  printed  in  fixed 
characters,  but    never   exceeding   a    very    few    leaves.       Of  these 


HENRY   HALLAM  2047 

there  exist  nine  or  ten,  often  reprinted,  as  it  is  generally  thought, 
between  1400  and  1440.  In  using  the  word  Printed,  it  is  of 
course  not  intended  to  prejudice  the  question  as  to  the  real  art 
of  printing.  These  block  books  seem  to  have  been  all  executed 
in  the  Low  Countries.  They  are  said  to  have  been  followed  by 
several  editions  of  the  short  grammar  of  Donatus.  These  also 
were  printed  in  Holland.  This  mode  of  printing  from  blocks  of 
wood  has  been  practiced  in  China  from  time  immemorial. 

The  invention  of  printing,  in  the  modern  sense,  from  mov- 
able letters,  has  been  referred  by  most  to  Gutenberg,  a  native  of 
Mentz,  but  settled  at  Strasburg.  He  is  supposed  to  have  con- 
ceived the  idea  before  1440,  and  to  have  spent  the  next  ten  years 
in  making  attempts  at  carrying  it  into  effect,  which  some  assert 
him  to  have  done  in  short  fugitive  pieces,  actually  printed  from 
his  movable  wooden  characters  before  1450.  But  of  the  existence 
of  these,  there  seems  to  be  no  evidence.  Gutenberg's  priority 
is  disputed  by  those  who  deem  Lawrence  Costar  of  Haarlem  the 
real  inventor  of  the  art.  According  to  a  tradition,  which  seems 
not  to  be  traced  beyond  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  century,  but 
resting  afterwards  upon  sufficient  testimony  to  prove  its  local  re- 
ception, Costar  substituted  movable  for  fixed  letters  as  early  as 
1430;  and  some  have  believed  that  a  book  called  "Speculum  Hu- 
manae  Salvationis,  '*  of  very  rude  wooden  characters,  proceeded  from 
the  Haarlem  press  before  any  other  that  is  generally  recognized. 
The  tradition  adds  that  an  unfaithful  servant,  having  fled  with 
the  secret,  set  up  for  himself  at  Strasburg  or  Mentz;  and  this 
treachery  was  originally  ascribed  to  Gutenberg  or  Fust,  but  seems, 
since  they  have  been  manifestly  cleared  of  it,  to  have  been  laid 
on  one  Gensfleisch,  reputed  to  be  the  brother  of  Gutenberg.  The 
evidence,  however,  as  to  this  is  highly  precarious;  and  even  if 
we  were  to  admit  the  claims  of  Costar,  there  seems  no  fair  rea- 
son to  dispute  that  Gutenberg  might  also  have  struck  out  an 
idea,  which  surely  did  not  require  any  extraordinary  ingenuity, 
and  left  the  most  important  difficulties  to  be  surmounted,  as  they 
undeniably  were,  by  himself  and  his  coadjutors. 

It  is  agreed  by  all  that  about  1450  Gutenberg,  having  gone 
to  Mentz,  entered  into  partnership  with  Fust,  a  rich  merchant  of 
that  city,  for  the  purpose  of  carrying  the  invention  into  effect, 
and  that  Fust  supplied  him  with  considerable  sums  of  money. 
The  subsequent  steps  are  obscure.  According  to  a  passage  in  the 
"Annalcs  Hirsargienses  '>  of  Tritheraius,  written  sixty  years  after- 


204S  HENRY   HALL AM 

wards,  but  on  the  authority  of  a  grandson  of  Peter  Schaeffer, 
their  assistant  in  the  work,  it  was  about  1452  that  the  latter 
brought  the  art  to  perfection,  by  devising  an  easier  mode  of  cast- 
ing types.  This  passage  has  been  interpreted,  according  to  a  lax 
construction,  to  mean  that  Schaeffer  invented  the  method  of  cast- 
ing types  in  a  matrix;  but  seems  more  strictly  to  intimate  that 
we  owe  to  him  the  great  improvement  in  letter  casting,  namely, 
the  punches  of  engraved  steel,  by  which  the  matrices  or  molds 
are  struck,  and  without  which,  independent  of  the  economy  of 
labor,  there  could  be  no  perfect  uniformity  of  shape.  Upon  the 
former  supposition  Schaeffer  may  be  reckoned  the  main  inventor 
of  the  art  of  printing;  for  movable  wooden  letters,  though  small 
books  may  possibly  have  been  printed  by  means  of  them,  are  so 
inconvenient,  and  letters  of  cut  metal  so  expensive,  that  few  great 
works  were  likely  to  have  passed  through  the  press  till  cast  types 
were  employed.  Van  Praet,  however,  believes  the  Psalter  of 
1457  to  have  been  printed  from  wooden  characters;  and  some 
have  conceived  letters  of  cut  metal  to  have  been  employed  both 
in  that  and  in  the  first  Bible.  Lambinet,  who  thinks  **  the  essence 
of  the  art  of  printing  is  in  the  engraved  punch,"  naturally  gives 
the  chief  credit  to  Schaeffer;  but  this  is  not  the  more  usual 
opinion. 

The  earliest  book,  properly  so  called,  is  now  generally  believed 
to  be  the  Latin  Bible,  commonly  called  the  Mazarin  Bible,  a  copy 
having  been  found,  about  the  middle  of  the  last  century,  in  Car- 
dinal Mazarin's  library  at  Paris.  It  is  remarkable  that  its  exist- 
ence was  unknown  before;  for  it  can  hardly  be  called  a  book  of 
very  extraordinary  scarcity,  nearly  twenty  copies  being  in  differ- 
ent libraries,  half  of  them  in  those  of  private  persons  in  England. 
No  date  appears  in  this  Bible,  and  some  have  referred  its  publi- 
cation to  1452,  or  even  to  1450,  which  few,  perhaps,  would  at  pres- 
ent maintain;  while  others  have  thought  the  year  1455  rather 
more  probable.  In  a  copy  belonging  to  the  Royal  Library  at 
Paris  an  entry  is  made  importing  that  it  was  completed  in  bind- 
ing and  illuminating  at  Mentz,  on  the  Feast  of  the  Assumption 
(Aug.  15),  1456.  But  Trithemius,  in  the  passage  above  quoted, 
seems  to  intimate  that  no  book  had  been  printed  in  1452;  and, 
considering  the  lapse  of  time  that  would  naturally  be  employed 
in  such  an  undertaking  during  the  infancy  of  the  art,  and  that 
we  have  no  other  printed  book  of  the  least  importance  to  fill  up 
the  interval  till  1457,  and  also  that  the  binding  and  illuminating 


HENRY   HALLAM  2049 

the  above-mentioned  copy  is  likely  to  have  followed  the  publica- 
tion at  no  great  length  of  time,  we  may  not  err  in  placing  its 
appearance  in  the  year  1455,  which  will  secure  its  hitherto  un- 
impeached  priority  in  the  records  of  bibHography. 

It  is  a  very  striking  circumstance  that  the  high-minded  in- 
ventors of  this  great  art  tried  at  the  very  outset  so  bold  a  flight 
as  the  printing  an  entire  Bible,  and  executed  it  with  astonishing 
success.  It  was  Minerva  leaping  on  earth  in  her  divine  strength 
and  radiant  armor,  ready  at  the  moment  of  her  nativity  to  sub- 
due and  destroy  her  enemies.  The  Mazarin  Bible  is  printed, 
some  copies  on  vellum,  some  on  paper  of  choice  quality,  with 
strong,  black,  and  tolerably  handsome  characters,  but  with  some 
want  of  uniformity,  which  has  led,  perhaps  unreasonably,  to  a 
doubt  whether  they  were  cast  in  a  matrix.  We  may  see  in  im- 
agination this  venerable  and  splendid  volume  leading  up  the 
crowded  myriads  of  its  followers,  and  imploring,  as  it  were,  a 
blessing  on  the  new  art,  by  dedicating  its  first  fruits  to  the  serv- 
ice of  heaven. 

A  metrical  exhortation,  in  the  German  language,  to  take  arms 
against  the  Turks,  dated  in  1454,  has  been  retrieved  in  the  pres- 
ent century.  If  this  date  unequivocally  refers  to  the  time  of 
printing,  which  does  not  seem  a  necessary  consequence,  it  is  the 
earliest  loose  sheet  that  is  known  to  be  extant.  It  is  said  to  be 
in  the  type  of  what  is  called  the  Bamberg  Bible,  which  we  shall 
soon  have  to  mention.  Two  editions  of  Letters  of  indulgence 
from  Nicolas  V.,  bearing  the  date  of  1454,  are  extant  in  single 
printed  sheets,  and  two  more  editions  of  1455;  but  it  has  justly 
been  observed  that  even  if  published  before  the  Mazarin  Bible, 
the  printing  of  the  great  volume  must  have  commenced  long  be- 
fore. An  almanac  for  the  year  1457  has  also  been  detected;  and 
as  fugitive  sheets  of  this  kind  are  seldom  preserved,  we  may 
justly  conclude  that  the  art  of  printing  was  not  dormant  so  far 
as  these  light  productions  are  concerned.  A  Donatus,  with 
Schaeffer's  name,  but  no  date,  may  or  may  not  be  older  than  a 
Psalter  published  in  1457  by  Fust  and  Schaeffer  (the  partnership 
with  Gutenberg  having  been  dissolVed  in  November,  1455.  ^"^ 
having  led  to  a  dispute  and  litigation),  with  a  colophon,  or  notice, 
subjoined  in  the  last  page,  in  these  words:  — 

'^Psalmorum  codex  venustate  capitalium  decoratus,  rubricaiionibusque  suf- 
ficienter  distinctus,  adinventione  artificiosa  itnprimendi  ac  caractertzandi,  abs- 
que calami  ulla   cxaratione  sic  effigiatus,  et  ad  eusebiam  Dei  industrie  es( 
VI — 129 


2050  HENRY   HALLAM 

summatus.      Per  Johannem  Fust,  civem  Moguniinum,  et  Petrum  Sch(zffer 
de  Gernsheim,  anno  Domini  millesimo  cccclvii.     In  vigilia  Assumptionisy* 

A  colophon,  substantially  similar,  is  subjoined  to  several  of 
the  Fustine  editions.  And  this  seems  hard  to  reconcile  with  the 
story  that  Fust  sold  his  impressions  at  Paris,  as  late  as  1463,  for 
manuscripts. 

Another  Psalter  was  printed  by  Fust  and  Schaeffer  with  simi- 
lar characters  in  1459;  and,  in  the  same  year,  *^  Durandi  Rationale,'* 
a  treatise  on  the  liturgical  offices  of  the  church;  of  which  Van 
Praet  says  that  it  is  perhaps  the  earliest  with  cast  types  to  which 
Fust  and  Schaeffer  have  given  their  name  and  date.  The  two 
Psalters  he  conceives  to  have  been  printed  from  wood.  But  this 
would  be  disputed  by  other  eminent  judges.  In  1460  a  work  of 
considerable  size,  the  ^*  Catholicon"  of  Balbi,  came  out  from  an 
opposition  press  established  at  Mentz  by  Gutenberg.  The  Clem- 
entine Constitutions,  part  of  the  canon  law,  were  also  printed  by 
him  in  the  same  year. 

These  are  the  only  monuments  of  early  typography  acknowl- 
edged to  come  within  the  present  decennium.  A  Bible  without 
a  date,  supposed  by  most  to  have  been  printed  by  Pfister  at 
Bamberg,  though  ascribed  by  others  to  Gutenberg  himself,  is 
reckoned  by  good  judges  certainly  prior  to  1462,  and  perhaps  as 
early  as  1460.  Daunou  and  others  refer  it  to  1461.  The  antiq- 
uities of  typography,  after  all  the  pains  bestowed  upon  them,  are 
not  unlikely  to  receive  still  further  elucidation  in  the  course  of 
time. 

From  « Introduction  to  the  Literature  of 
Europe, »  Chap.  iii. 


POETS   WHO   MADE   SHAKESPEARE   POSSIBLE 

«TN  THE  latter  end  of  King  Henry  the  Eighth's  reign, »  says  Put- 
I  tenham  in  his  <*Art  of  Poesie,**  ^<  sprung  up  a  new  company 
of  courtly  makers,  of  whom  Sir  Thomas  Wyatt  the  elder  and 
Henry,  Earl  of  Surrey  were  the  two  chieftains,  who  having  trav- 
ailed into  Italy,  and  there  tasted  the  sweet  and  stately  measures 
and  style  of  the  Italian  poesie,  as  novices  newly  crept  out  of  the 
schools  of  Dante,  Ariosto,  and  Petrarch,  they  greatly  polished  our 
rude  and  homely  manner  of  vulgar  poesie,  from  that  it  had  been 
before,  and  for  that  cause  may  justly  be  said  the  first  reformers 


HENRY  HALLAM  205 1 

of  our  English  metre  and  style.  In  the  same  time  or  not  long 
after  was  the  Lord  Nicolas  Vaux,  a  man  of  much  facility  in  vul- 
gar makings.*'  The  poems  of  Sir  Thomas  Wyatt,  who  died  in  1544, 
and  of  the  Earl  of  Surrey,  executed  in  1547,  were  first  published 
in  1557,  with  a  few  by  other  hands,  in  a  scarce  little  book  called 
"  Tottel's  Miscellanies.  '*  They  were,  however,  in  all  probability, 
Lnown  before;  and  it  seems  necessary  to  mention  them  in  this 
period,  as  they  mark  an  important  epoch  in  English  literature. 

Wyatt  and  Surrey,  for  we  may  best  name  them  in  the  order 
of  time,  rather  than  of  civil  or  poetical  rank,  have  had  recently 
the  good  fortune  to  be  recommended  by  an  editor  of  extensive 
acquaintance  with  literature,  and  of  still  superior  taste.  It  will 
be  a  gratification  to  read  the  following  comparison  of  the  two 
poets,  which  I  extract  the  more  willingly  that  it  is  found  in  a 
publication  somewhat  bulky  and  expensive  for  the  mass  of 
readers : — 

"  They  were  men  whose  minds  may  be  said  to  have  been  cast  in 
the  same  mold,  for  they  differ  only  in  those  minuter  shades  of  char- 
acter which  always  must  exist  in  human  nature,  —  shades  of  difference 
so  infinitely  varied,  that  there  never  were  and  never  will  be  two  per- 
sons in  all  respects  alike.  In  their  love  of  virtue  and  their  instinc- 
tive hatred  and  contempt  of  vice,  in  their  freedom  from  personal 
jealousy,  in  their  thirst  after  knowledge  and  intellectual  improvement, 
in  nice  observation  of  nature,  promptitude  to  action,  intrepidity  and 
fondness  for  romantic  enterprise,  in  magnificence  and  liberality,  in 
generous  support  of  others  and  high-spirited  neglect  of  themselves, 
in  constancy  in  friendship,  and  tender  susceptibility  of  affections  of  a 
still  warmer  nature,  and  in  everything  connected  with  sentiment  and 
principle,  they  were  one  and  the  same ;  but  when  those  qualities 
branch  out  into  particulars,  they  will  be  found  in  some  respects  to 
differ. 

*•  Wyatt  had  a  deeper  and  more  accurate  penetration  into  the 
characters  of  men  than  Surrey  had;  hence  arises  the  difference  in 
their  satires.  Surrey,  in  his  satire  against  the  citizens  of  London, 
deals  only  in  reproach;  Wyatt,  in  his,  abounds  with  irony,  and  those 
nice  touches  of  ridicule  which  make  us  ashamed  of  our  faults,  and 
therefore  often  silently  effect  amendment.  Surrey's  observation  of 
nature  was  minute ;  but  he  directed  it  towards  the  works  of  nature  in 
general,  and  the  movements  of  the  passions,  rather  than  to  the  foibles 
and  characters  of  men ;  hence  it  is  that  he  excels  in  the  description 
of  rural  objects,  and  is  always  tender  and  pathetic.  In  Wyatt's  «  Com- 
plaint* we  hear  a  strain  of   manly  grief   which  commands  attention, 


2052  HENRY  HALLAM 

and  we  listen  to  it  with  respect,  for  the  sake  of  him  that  suffers. 
Surrey's  distress  is  painted  in  such  natural  terms  that  we  make  it 
our  own,  and  recognize  in  his  sorrows  emotions  which  we  are  conscious 
of  having  felt  ourselves. 

« In  point  of  taste  and  perception  of  propriety  in  composition,  Sur- 
rey is  more  accurate  and  just  than  Wyatt;  he  therefore  seldom  either 
offends  with  conceits  or  wearies  with  repetition,  and  when  he  imitates 
other  poets  he  is  original  as  well  as  pleasing.  In  his  numerous  trans- 
lations from  Petrarch  he  is  seldom  inferior  to  his  master;  and  he 
seldom  improves  upon  him.  Wyatt  is  almost  always  below  the  Ital- 
ian, and  frequently  degrades  a  good  thought  by  expressing  it  so  that 
it  is  hardly  recognizable.  Had  Wyatt  attempted  a  translation  of  Vir- 
gil, as  Surrey  did,  he  would  have  exposed  himself  to  unavoidable 
failure.*^ 

To  remarks  so  delicate  in  taste  and  so  founded  in  knowledge, 
I  should  not  venture  to  add  much  of  my  own.  Something,  how- 
ever, may  generally  be  admitted  to  modify  the  ard-ent  panegyrics 
of  an  editor.  Those  who,  after  reading  this  brilliant  passage, 
should  turn  for  the  first  time  to  the  poems  either  of  Wyatt  or  of 
Surrey,  might  think  the  praise  too  unbounded,  and,  in  some  re- 
spects perhaps,  not  appropriate.  It  seems  to  be  now  ascertained, 
after  sweeping  away  a  host  of  foolish  legends  and  traditionary 
prejudices,  that  the  Geraldine  of  Surrey,  Lady  Elizabeth  Fitzger- 
ald, was  a  child  of  thirteen,  for  whom  his  passion,  if  such  it  is 
to  be  called,  began  several  years  after  his  own  marriage.  But 
in  fact  there  is  more  of  the  conventional  tone  of  amorous  song, 
than  of  real  emotion,  in  Surrey's  poetry.     The 

<<Easy  sighs,  such  as  men  draw  in  love,'^ 

are  not  like  the  deep  sorrows  of  Petrarch,  or  the  fiery  transports 
of  the    Castilians. 

The  taste  of  this  accomplished  man  is  more  striking  than 
his  poetical  genius.  He  did  much  for  his  own  country  and  his 
native  language.  The  versification  of  Surrey  differs  very  consid- 
erably from  that  of  his  predecessors.  He  introduced,  as  Dr.  Nott 
says,  a  sort  of  involution  into  his  style,  which  gives  an  air  of  dig- 
nity and  remoteness  from  common  life.  It  was,  in  fact,  borrowed 
from  the  license  of  Italian  poetry,  which  our  own  idiom  has  re- 
jected. He  avoids  pedantic  words,  forcibly  obtruded  from  the 
Latin,  of  which  our  earlier  poets,  both  English  and  Scotch,  had 
been   ridiculously  fond.      The  absurd  epithets  of  Hoccleve,  Lyd- 


HENRY   HALLAxM  2053 

gate,  Dunbar,  and  Douglas  are  applied  equally  to  the  most  dif- 
ferent things,  so  as  to  show  that  they  annexed  no  meaning  to 
them.  Surrey  rarely  lays  an  unnatural  stress  on  final  syllables, 
merely  as  such,  which  they  would  not  receive  in  ordinary  pronun- 
ciation,—  another  usual  trick  of  the  school  of  Chaucer.  His  words 
are  well  chosen  and  well  arranged. 

Surrey  is  the  first  who  introduced  blank  verse  into  our  English 
poetry.  It  has  been  doubted  whether  it  had  been  previously  em- 
ployed in  Italian,  save  in  tragedy;  for  the  poems  of  Alamanni 
and  Rucellai  were  not  published  before  many  of  our  noble  poet's 
compositions  had  been  written.  Dr.  Nott,  however,  admits  that 
Boscan  and  other  Spanish  poets  had  used  it.  The  translation  by 
Surrey  of  the  second  book  of  the  ^^^neid,'*  in  blank  verse,  is  among 
the  chief  of  his  productions.  No  one  had,  before  his  time,  known 
how  to  translate  or  imitate  with  appropriate  expression.  But  the 
structure  of  his  verse  is  not  very  harmonious,  and  the  sense  is 
rarely  carried  beyond  the  line. 

If  we  could  rely  on  a  theory,  advanced  and  ably  supported  by 
his  editor,  Surrey  deserves  the  still  more  conspicuous  praise  of 
having  brought  about  a  great  revolution  in  our  poetical  numbers. 
It  had  been  supposed  to  be  proved  by  Tyrwhitt  that  Chaucer's 
lines  are  to  be  read  metrically,  in  ten  or  eleven  syllables,  like 
the  Italian,  and,  as  I  apprehend,  the  French  of  his  time.  For 
this  purpose  it  is  necessary  to  presume  that  many  terminations, 
now  mute,  were  syllabically  pronounced;  and  where  verses  prove 
refractory  after  all  our  endeavors,  Tyrwhitt  has  no  scruple  in  de- 
claring them  corrupt.  It  may  be  added  that  Gray,  before  the 
appearance  of  Tyrwhitt's  essay  on  the  versification  of  Chaucer, 
had  adopted  without  hesitation  the  same  hypothesis.  But,  accord- 
ing to  Dr.  Nott,  the  verses  of  Chaucer,  and  of  all  his  successors 
down  to  Surrey,  are  merely  rhythmical,  to  be  read  by  cadence, 
and  admitting  of  considerable  variety  in  the  number  of  syllables, 
though  ten  may  be  the  more  frequent.  In  the  manuscripts  of 
Chaucer  the  line  is  always  broken  by  a  caesura  in  the  middle, 
which  is  pointed  out  by  a  virgule;  and  this  is  preserved  in  the 
early  editions  down  to  that  of  1532.  They  come  near,  therefore, 
to  the  short  Saxon  line,  differing  chiefly  by  the  alternate  rhyme, 
which  converts  two  verses  into  one.  He  maintains  that  a  great 
many  lines  of  Chaucer  cannot  be  read  metrically,  though  har- 
monious as  verses  of  cadence.  This  rhythmical  measure  he  pro- 
ceeds to  show  in  Hoccleve,  Lydgatc,  Hawes,  Barclay,  Skelton,  and 


2  054  HENRY  HALLAM 

even  Wyatt;   and  thus  concludes  that  it  was  first  abandoned   by- 
Surrey,  in  whom  it  very  rarely  occurs. 

This  hypothesis,  it  should  be  observed,  derives  some  additional 
plausibility  from  a  passage  in  Gascoyne's  « Notes  of  Instruction 
concerning  the  Making  of  Verse  or  Rhyme  in  English,'*  printed 
in  1575:  — 

« Whosoever  do  peruse  and  well  consider  his  [Chaucer's]  works, 
he  shall  find  that,  although  his  lines  are  not  always  of  one  self-same 
number  of  syllables,  yet,  being  read  by  one  that  hath  understanding, 
the  longest  verse,  and  that  which  hath  most  syllables  in  it,  will  fall 
(to  the  ear)  correspondent  unto  that  which  hath  fewest  syllables;  and 
likewise  that  which  hath  fewest  syllables  shall  be  found  yet  to  con- 
sist of  words  that  have  such  natural  sound  as  may  seem  equal  in 
length  to  a  verse  which  hath  many  more  syllables  of  lighter  accents.* 

A  theory  so  ingeniously  maintained,  and  with  so  much  induc- 
tion of  examples,  has  naturally  gained  a  good  deal  of  credit.  I 
cannot,  however,  by  any  means  concur  in  the  extension  given  to 
it.  Pages  may  be  read  in  Chaucer,  and  still  more  in  Dunbar, 
where  every  line  is  regularly  and  harmoniously  decasyllabic;  and 
though  the  caesura  may  perhaps  fall  rather  more  uniformly  than 
it  does  in  modern  verse,  it  would  be  very  easy  to  find  exceptions, 
which  could  not  acquire  a  rhythmical  cadence  by  any  artifice  of 
the  reader.  The  deviations  from  the  normal  type,  or  decasyllabic 
line,  were  they  more  numerous  than,  after  allowance  for  the 
license  of  pronunciation,  as  well  as  the  probable  corruption  of  the 
text,  they  appear  to  be,  would  not,  I  conceive,  justify  us  in  con- 
cluding that  it  was  disregarded.  For  these  aberrant  lines  are 
much  more  common  in  the  dramatic  blank  verse  of  the  seven- 
teenth century.  They  are,  doubtless,  vestiges  of  the  old  rhyth- 
mical forms;  and  we  may  readily  allow  that  English  versification 
had  not,  in  the  fifteenth  or  even  sixteenth  centuries,  the  numer- 
ical regularity  of  classical  or  Italian  metre.  In  the  ancient  bal- 
lads, Scotch  and  English,  the  substitution  of  the  anapest  for  the 
iambic  foot  is  of  perpetual  recurrence,  and  gives  them  a  remark- 
able elasticity  and  animation;  but  we  never  fail  to  recognize  a 
uniformity  of  measure,  which  the  use  of  nearly  equipollent  feet 
cannot,  on  the  strictest  metrical  principles,  be  thought  to  impair. 

If  we  compare  the  poetry  of  Wyatt  and  Surrey  with  that  of 
Barclay  or  Skelton,  about  thirty  or  forty  years  before,  the  differ- 
ence must  appear  wonderful.     But  we  should  not,  with  Dr.  Nott, 


HENRY   HALLAM  2055 

attribute  this  wholly  to  superiority  of  genius.  It  is  to  be  remem- 
bered that  the  later  poets  wrote  in  a  court,  and  in  one  which, 
besides  the  aristocratic  manners  of  chivalry,  had  not  only  imbibed 
a  great  deal  of  refinement  from  France  and  Italy,  but  a  consid- 
erable tinge  of  ancient  literature.  Their  predecessors  were  less 
educated  men,  and  they  addressed  a  more  vulgar  class  of  readers. 
Nor  was  this  polish  of  language  peculiar  to  Surrey  and  his  friend. 
In  the  short  poems  of  Lord  Vaux,  and  of  others  about  the  same 
time,  even  in  those  of  Nicolas  Grimoald,  a  lecturer  at  Oxford, 
who  was  no  courtier,  but  had  acquired  a  classical  taste,  we  find 
a  rejection  of  obsolete  and  trivial  phrases,  and  the  beginnings  of 
what  we  now  call  the  style  of  our  older  poetry. 

From  « Introduction  to  the  Literature  of  Europe,*^ 
Part  I.,  Chap.  viii. 


2056 


PHILIP   GILBERT  HAMERTON 

(1 834-1 894) 

!he  "Intellectual  Life, »  by  Philip  Gilbert  Hamerton,  is  a  series 
of  essays  written  in  the  form  of  letters  to  imaginary  corre- 
spondents who  are  supposed  to  have  consulted  the  writer  on 
some  subject  of  literature  or  art.  Hamerton  was  a  landscape  painter 
and  etcher  of  ability,  and  among  his  most  notable  publications  were 
"Etching  and  Etchers, »  <<  The  Graphic  Arts,'^  and  *  Contemporary 
French  Painters,*  volumes  which  are  treasured  because  of  his  ad- 
mirably etched  illustrations.  He  was  born  in  Lancashire,  England, 
September  loth.  1834.  His  taste  for  rural  life  was  marked,  and  some 
of  his  best  books  are  impregnated  with  it.  His  autobiography,  left 
incomplete  at  his  death  (November  5th,  1894),  was  published  by  his 
widow,  with  a  supplement.  His  works  include  several  novels,  a  num- 
ber of  books  of  art  criticism,  and  his  essays  on  the  "  Intellectual  Life,* 
—  the  latter  his  most  popular  production. 


WOMEN   AND   MARRIAGE 

THE  subject  of  marriage  is  one  concerning  which  neither  I  nor 
anybody  else  can  have  more  than  an  infinitesimally  small 
atom  of  knowledge.  Each  of  us  knows  how  his  or  her  own 
marriage  has  turned  out;  but  that,  in  comparison  with  a  knowl- 
edge of  marriage  generally,  is  like  a  single  plant  in  comparison 
with  the  flora  of  the  globe.  The  utmost  experience  on  this  sub- 
ject to  be  found  in  this  country  extends  to  about  three  trials  or 
experiments.  A  man  may  become  twice  a  widower,  and  then 
marry  a  third  time,  but  it  may  be  easily  shown  that  the  variety 
of  his  experience  is  more  than  counterbalanced  by  its  incomplete- 
ness in  each  instance.  For  the  experiment  to  be  conclusive  even 
as  to  the  wisdom  of  one  decision,  it  must  extend  over  half  a  life- 
time. A  true  marriage  is  not  a  mere  temporary  arrangement, 
and  although  a  young  couple  are  said  to  be  married  as  soon  as 
the  lady  has  changed  her  name,  the  truth  is  that  the  real  mar- 
riage is  a  long  slow  intergrowth,  like  that  of  two  trees  planted 
quite  close  together  in  the  forest. 


PHILIP   GILBERT   HAMERTON  2057 

The  subject  of  marriage  generally  is  one  of  which  men  know 
less  than  they  know  of  any  other  subject  of  universal  interest. 
People  are  almost  always  wrong  in  their  estimates  of  the  mar- 
riages of  others,  and  the  best  proof  how  little  we  know  the  real 
tastes  and  needs  of  those  with  whom  we  have  been  most  inti- 
mate is  our  unfailing  surprise  at  the  marriages  they  make. 
Very  old  and  experienced  people  fancy  they  know  a  great  deal 
about  younger  couples,  but  their  guesses,  there  is  good  reason  to 
believe,  never  exactly  hit  the  mark. 

Ever  since  this  idea,  that  marriage  is  a  subject  we  are  all 
very  ignorant  about,  had  taken  root  in  my  own  mind,  many  little 
incidents  were  perpetually  occurring  to  confirm  it;  they  proved 
to  me,  on  the  one  hand,  how  often  I  had  been  mistaken  about 
other  people,  and,  on  the  other  hand,  how  mistaken  other  people 
were  concerning  the  only  marriage  I  profess  to  know  anything 
about,  namely,  my  own. 

Our  ignorance  is  all  the  darker  that  few  men  tell  us  the  little 
that  they  know,  that  little  being  too  closely  bound  up  with  that 
innermost  privacy  of  life  which  every  man  of  right  feeling  re- 
spects in  his  own  case,  as  in  the  case  of  another.  The  only  in- 
stances which  are  laid  bare  to  the  public  view  are  the  unhappy 
marriages,  which  are  really  not  marriages  at  all.  An  unhappy  al- 
liance bears  exactly  the  same  relation  to  a  true  marriage  that 
disease  does  to  health,  and  the  quarrels  and  misery  of  it  are  the 
crises  by  which  nature  tries  to  bring  about  either  the  recovery 
of  happiness,  or  the  endurable  peace  of  a  settled  separation. 

All  that  we  really  know  about  marriage  is  that  it  is  based 
upon  the  most  powerful  of  all  our  instincts,  and  that  it  shows  its 
own  justification  in  its  fruits,  especially  in  the  prolonged  and 
watchful  care  of  children.  But  marriage  is  very  complex  in  its 
effects,  and  there  is  one  set  of  effects  resulting  from  it,  to  which 
remarkably  little  attention  has  been  paid  hitherto, —  I  mean  its 
effects  upon  the  intellectual  life.  Surely  they  deserve  considera- 
tion by  all  who  value  culture. 

I  believe  that  for  an  intellectual  man  only  two  courses  are 
open ;  either  he  ought  to  marry  some  simple,  dutiful  woman  who 
will  bear  him  children,  and  see  to  the  household  matters,  and  love 
him  in  a  trustful  spirit  without  jealousy  of  his  occupations;  or 
else,  on  the  other  hand,  he  ought  to  marry  some  highly  intelli- 
gent lady,  able  to  carry  her  education  far  beyond  school  expe- 
riences, and  willing  to  become  his  companion  in  the  arduous  paths 


2058  PHILIP   GILBERT   HAMERTON 

of  intellectual  labor.  The  danger  in  the  first  of  the  two  cases  is 
that  pointed  out  by  Wordsworth  in  some  verses  addressed  to  lake 
tourists  who  might  feel  inclined  to  buy  a  peasant's  cottage  in 
Westmoreland.  The  tourist  would  spoil  the  little  romantic  spot 
if  he  bought  it ;  the  charm  of  it  is  subtly  dependent  upon  the  po- 
etry of  a  simple  life,  and  would  be  brushed  away  by  the  influence 
of  the  things  that  are  necessary  to  people  in  the  middle  class.  I 
remember  dining  in  a  country  inn  with  an  English  officer  whose 
ideas  were  singularly  unconventional.  We  were  waited  upon  by 
our  host's  daughter,  a  beautiful  girl,  whose  manners  were  remark- 
able for  their  natural  elegance  and  distinction.  It  seemed  to  us 
both  that  no  lady  of  rank  could  be  more  distinguished  than  she 
was;  and  my  companion  said  that  he  thought  a  gentleman  might 
do  worse  than  ask  that  girl  to  marry  him,  and  settle  down  quietly 
in  that  quiet  mountain  village,  far  from  the  cares  and  vanities  of 
the  world.  That  is  a  sort  of  dream  which  has  occurred  no  doubt 
to  many  an  honorable  man.  Some  men  have  gone  so  far  as  to 
try  to  make  the  dream  a  reality,  and  have  married  the  beautiful 
peasant.  But  the  difficulty  is  that  she  does  not  remain  what  she 
was;  she  becomes  a  sort  of  make-belief  lady,  and  then  her  igno- 
rance, which  in  her  natural  condition  was  a  charming  naivety, 
becomes  an  irritating  defect.  If,  however,  it  were  possible  for  an 
intellectual  man  to  marry  some  simple-hearted  peasant  girl,  and 
keep  her  carefully  in  her  original  condition,  I  seriously  believe 
that  the  venture  would  be  less  perilous  to  his  culture  than  an 
alliance  with  some  woman  of  our  Philistine  classes,  equally  incapable 
of  comprehending  his  pursuits,  but  much  more  likely  to  interfere 
with  them.  I  once  had  a  conversation  on  this  subject  with  a 
distinguished  artist,  who  is  now  a  widower,  and  who  is  certainly 
not  likely  to  be  prejudiced  against  marriage  by  his  own  expe- 
rience, which  had  been  an  unusually  happy  one.  His  view  was 
that  a  man  devoted  to  art  might  marry  either  a  plain-minded 
woman,  who  would  occupy  herself  exclusively  with  household 
matters  and  shield  his  peace  by  taking  these  cares  upon  herself, 
or  else  a  woman  quite  capable  of  entering  into  his  artistic  life; 
but  he  was  convinced  that  a  marriage  which  exposed  him  to  un- 
intelligent criticism  and  interference  would  be  dangerous  in  the 
highest  degree.  And  of  the  two  kinds  of  marriage  which  he 
considered  possible  he  preferred  the  former,  that  with  the  entirely 
ignorant  and  simple  person  from  whom  no  interference  was  to 
be   apprehended.       He   considered    the   first    Madame   Ingres    the 


PHILIP   GILBERT   HAMERTON  2059 

true  model  of  an  artist's  wife,  because  she  did  all  in  her  power 
to  guard  her  husband's  peace  against  the  daily  cares  of  life  and 
never  herself  disturbed  it,  acting  the  part  of  a  breakwater  which 
protects  a  space  of  calm,  and  never  destroys  the  peace  that  it 
has  made.  This  may  be  true  for  artists  whose  occupation  is 
rather  aesthetic  than  intellectual,  and  does  not  get  much  help  or 
benefit  from  talk;  but  the  ideal  marriage  for  a  man  of  great  lit- 
erary culture  would  be  one  permitting  some  equality  of  compan- 
ionship, or,  if  not  equality,  at  least  interest.  That  this  ideal  is 
not  a  mere  dream,  but  may  consolidate  into  a  happy  reality,  sev- 
eral examples  prove;  yet  these  examples  are  not  so  numerous  as 
to  relieve  me  from  anxiety  about  your  chances  of  finding  such 
companionship.  The  different  education  of  the  two  sexes  sepa- 
rates them  widely  at  the  beginning;  and  to  meet  on  any  common 
ground  of  culture,  a  second  education  has  to  be  gone  through.  It 
rarely  happens  that  there  is  resolution  enough  for  this. 

The  want  of  thoroughness  and  reality  in  the  education  of 
both  sexes,  but  especially  in  that  of  women,  may  be  attributed 
to  a  sort  of  policy  which  is  not  very  favorable  to  companionship 
in  married  life.  It  appears  to  be  thought  wise  to  teach  boys 
things  which  women  do  not  learn,  in  order  to  give  women  a  de- 
gree of  respect  for  men's  attainments,  which  they  would  not  be 
so  likely  to  feel  if  they  were  prepared  to  estimate  them  critically; 
whilst  girls  are  taught  arts  and  languages  which  until  recently 
were  all  but  excluded  from  our  public  schools,  and  won  no  rank 
at  our  universities.  Men  and  women  had  consequently  scarcely 
any  common  ground  to  meet  upon,  and  the  absence  of  serious 
mental  discipline  in  the  training  of  women  made  them  indisposed 
to  submit  to  the  irksomeness  of  that  earnest  intellectual  labor 
which  might  have  remedied  the  deficiency.  The  total  lack  of 
accuracy  in  their  mental  habits  was  then,  and  is  still  for  the  im- 
mense majority  of  women,  the  least  easily  surmountable  impedi- 
ment to  culture.  The  history  of  many  marriages  which  have  failed 
to  realize  intellectual  companionship  is  comprised  in  a  sentence 
which  was  actually  uttered  by  one  of  the  most  accomplished  of  my 
friends:  "  She  knew  nothing  when  I  married  her.  I  tried  to  teach 
her  something;  it  made  her  angry,  and  I  gave  it  up." 

Letter  I.  on  Women  and  Marriage  complete. 
F"rom  « Intellectual  Life.» 


2o6o  t>HlLlP  GILBERT  HAMERTON 


TO  A  LADY  OF  HIGH   CULTURE 

I   THINK  that  the  greatest  misfortune   in   the    intellectual   life   of 
women  is  that  they  do  not  hear  the  truth  from  men. 

All  men  in  cultivated  society  say  to  women  as  much  as 
possible  that  which  they  may  be  supposed  to  wish  to  hear,  and 
women  are  so  much  accustomed  to  this  that  they  can  scarcely 
hear  without  resentment  an  expression  of  opinion  which  takes  no 
account  of  their  personal  and  private  feeling.  The  consideration 
for  the  feelings  of  women  gives  an  agreeable  tone  to  society,  but 
it  is  fatal  to  the  severity  of  truth.  Observe  a  man  of  the  world 
whose  opinions  are  well  known  to  you, —  notice  the  little  pause 
before  he  speaks  to  a  lady.  During  that  little  pause  he  is  turn- 
ing over  what  he  has  to  say,  so  as  to  present  it  in  the  manner 
that  will  please  her  best;  and  you  may  be  sure  that  the  integrity 
of  truth  will  suffer  in  the  process.  If  we  compare  what  we 
know  of  the  man  with  that  which  the  lady  hears  from  him,  we 
perceive  the  immense  disadvantages  of  her  position.  He  ascer- 
tains what  will  please  her,  and  that  is  what  he  administers.  He 
professes  to  take  a  deep  interest  in  things  which  he  does  not 
care  for  in  the  least,  and  he  passes  lightly  over  subjects  and 
events  which  he  knows  to  be  of  the  most  momentous  importance 
to  the  world.  The  lady  spends  an  hour  more  agreeably  than  if 
she  heard  opinions  which  would  irritate,  and  prognostics  which 
would  alarm  her,  but  she  has  missed  an  opportunity  for  culture, 
she  has  been  confirmed  in  feminine  illusions.  If  this  happened 
only  from  time  to  time,  the  effect  would  not  tell  so  much  on  the 
mental  constitution;  but  it  is  incessant,  it  is  continual.  Men  dis- 
guise their  thoughts  for  women  as  if  to  venture  into  the  feminine 
world  were  as  dangerous  as  traveling  in  Arabia,  or  as  if  the 
thoughts  themselves  were  criminal. 

There  appeared  two  or  three  years  ago  in  Punch  a  clever 
drawing  which  might  have  served  as  an  illustration  to  this  sub- 
ject. A  fashionable  doctor  was  visiting  a  lady  in  Belgravia  who 
complained  that  she  suffered  from  debility.  Cod-liver  oil  being 
repugnant  to  her  taste,  the  agreeable  doctor,  wise  in  his  genera- 
tion, blandly-  suggested  as  an  effective  substitute  a  mixture  of 
cream  and  curagoa.  What  that  intelligent  man  did  for  his  pa- 
tient's physical  constitution,  all  men  of  politeness  do  for  the  in- 
tellectual   constitution    of    ladies.      Instead    of    administering    the 


PHILIP   GILBERT   HAMERTON  2o6l 

truth  which  would    strengthen,  though  unpalatable,  they  adminis- 
ter intellectual  cream  and  cura^oa. 

The  primary  cause  of  this  tendency  to  say  what  is  most  pleas- 
ing to  women  is  likely  to  be  as  permanent  as  the  distinction  of 
sex  itself.  It  springs  directly  from  sexual  feelings,  it  is  heredi- 
tary and  instinctive.  Men  will  never  talk  to  women  with  that 
rough  frankness  which  they  use  between  themselves.  Conversa- 
tion between  the  sexes  will  always  be  partially  insincere.  Still 
I  think  that  the  more  women  are  respected,  the  more  men  will 
desire  to  be  approved  by  them  for  what  they  are  in  reality,  and 
the  less  they  will  care  for  approval  which  is  obtained  by  dissim- 
ulation. It  may  be  observed  already  that,  in  the  most  intel- 
lectual society  of  great  capitals,  men  are  considerably  more 
outspoken  before  women  than  they  are  in  the  provincial  middle 
classes.  Where  women  have  most  culture,  men  are  most  open 
and  sincere.  Indeed,  the  highest  culture  has  a  direct  tendency 
to  command  sincerity  in  others,  both  because  it  is  tolerant  of 
variety  in  opinion,  and  because  it  is  so  penetrating  that  dissim- 
ulation is  felt  to  be  of  no  use.  By  the  side  of  an  uncultivated 
woman,  a  man  feels  that  if  he  says  anything  different  from  what 
she  has  been  accustomed  to,  she  will  take  offense;  whilst  if  he 
says  anything  beyond  the  narrow  range  of  her  information,  he 
will  make  her  cold  and  uncomfortable.  The  most  honest  of  men, 
in  such  a  position,  finds  it  necessary  to  be  very  cautious,  and 
can  scarcely  avoid  a  little  insincerity.  But  with  a  woman  of  cul- 
ture equal  to  his  own,  these  causes  for  apprehension  have  no 
existence,  and  he  can  safely  be  more  himself. 

These  considerations  lead  me  to  hope  that  as  culture  becomes 
more  general  women  will  hear  truth  more  frequently.  When- 
ever this  comes  to  pass,  it  will  be,  to  them,  an  immense  intel- 
lectual gain. 

Letter  VIII.  on  Women  and  Marriage  complete. 
From  « Intellectual  Life.* 


2062 


ALEXANDER   HAMILTON 

(1757-1804) 

jLEXANDER  HAMILTON,  the  Celebrated  founder  of  the  Federalist 
party,  was  born  in  the  West  Indies,  January  nth,  1757.  He 
came  to  the  United  States  in  1772,  and  entered  actively  into 
politics  before  attaining  his  majority.  The  talent  for  political  writ- 
ing, which  had  such  marked  effect  when  he  displayed  it  through  the 
Federalist  after  the  Constitution  had  been  framed,  attracted  attention 
in  1774-75.  ^^d  when  he  entered  the  army  he  became  a  favorite  mem- 
ber of  Washington's  staff.  After  serving  with  distinction  he  was 
elected  to  the  Continental  Congress,  and  in  1787  to  the  convention 
which  submitted  the  Federal  Constitution  to  the  states.  In  the  New 
York  convention,  called  to  pass  upon  the  Federal  constitution,  he  met 
powerful  opposition  ably  represented,  and  defeated  it  by  a  force  and 
flexibility  of  intellect  which  had  not  been  shown  before  in  American 
public  affairs.  From  October,  1787,  to  April,  1788,  he  co-operated  with 
Jay  and  Madison  in  writing  the  Federalist  essays,  which  appeared 
serially  in  the  Independent  Journal  of  New  York.  They  owe  their 
form  to  the  Whig  Examiner  of  Addison's  time,  and  their  spirit  to 
strong  Anglican  conservatism  and  repugnance  to  everything  French. 
The  contest  between  English  ideals  and  those  of  eighteenth-century 
France  was  waged  in  America  with  bitterness  during  the  decade 
which  preceded  the  actual  hostilities  of  the  Revolution,  when  Otis, 
Samuel  Adams,  and  Jefferson  represented  the  extreme  of  opposition  to 
what  was  afterwards  called  Federalism.  Otis  seems  first  to  have  pro- 
mulgated in' America  the  doctrine  of  "Individual  Sovereignty,*^  which 
was  held  by  Virginia  "Jacobins'*  with  Jefferson,  and  afterwards  by 
New  England  "Radicals**  with  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson, — who  in  his 
"English  Traits**  pronounces  it  the  only  distinctive  "American  idea.** 
Otis  died  in  1783,  however,  and  during  the  time  of  Hamilton's  great- 
est successes,  Jefferson  was  absent  in  France.  Returning  and  finding 
how  his  followers  and  friends  had  been  overmatched,  Jefferson  be- 
came embittered  against  Hamilton  and  began  organizing  the  country 
for  his  overthrow.  In  his  "Anas**  Jefferson  writes  characteristically 
of  the  beginning  of  this  contest,  and  the  passage,  while  it  cannot  be 
fairly  described,  except  as  an  exasperated  attack,  is  vital  for  an  un- 
derstanding of  Hamilton's  career  and  of  the  next  half-century  of 
American  history. 


ALEXANDER   HAMILTON  2063 

«The  want  of  some  authority  which  should  procure  justice  to  the  public 
creditors,  >*  Jefferson  writes,  <<and  an  observance  of  treaties  with  foreign  na- 
tions, produced  .  .  .  the  call  of  a  convention  of  the  states  at  Annapolis. 
Although,  at  this  meeting,  a  difference  of  opinion  was  evident  on  the  question 
of  a  republican  or  kingly  government,  yet  so  general  through  the  states  was 
the  sentiment  in  favor  of  the  former,  that  the  friends  of  the  latter  confined 
themselves  to  a  course  of  obstruction  only,  and  delay,  to  everything  proposed; 
they  hoped  that  nothing  being  done,  and  all  things  going  from  bad  to  worse, 
a  kingly  government  might  be  usurped,  and  submitted  to  by  the  people,  as 
better  than  anarchy  and  wars  internal  and  external,  the  certain  consequences 
of  the  present  want  of  a  general  government.  The  effect  of  their  manoeuvres, 
with  the  defective  attendance  of  Deputies  from  the  states,  resulted  in  the 
measure  of  calling  a  more  general  convention,  to  be  held  at  Philadelphia.  At 
this  the  same  party  exhibited  the  same  practices,  and  with  the  same  views  of 
preventing  a  government  of  concord,  which  they  foresaw  would  be  republican, 
and  of  forcing  through  anarchy  their  way  to  monarchy.  But  the  mass  of  that 
convention  was  too  honest,  too  wise,  and  too  steady,  to  be  baffled  and  misled 
by  their  manoeuvres.  One  of  these  was  a  form  of  government  proposed  by 
Col.  Hamilton,  which  would  have  been  in  fact  a  compromise  between  the  two 
parties  of  royalism  and  republicanism.  According  to  this,  the  executive  and 
one  branch  of  the  legislature  were  to  be  during  good  behavior,  i.  e.,  for  life, 
and  the  governors  of  the  states  were  to  be  named  by  these  two  permanent 
organs.  This,  however,  was  rejected;  on  which  Hamilton  left  the  convention, 
as  desperate,  and  never  retiirned  again  until  near  its  final  conclusion.  These 
opinions  and  efforts,  secret  or  avowed,  of  the  advocates  for  monarchy  had  be- 
gotten great  jealousy  through  the  states  generally;  and  this  jealousy  it  was 
which  excited  the  strong  opposition  to  the  conventional  constitution, — a  jeal- 
ousy which  yielded  at  last  only  to  a  general  determination  to  establish  certain 
amendments  as  barriers  against  a  government  either  monarchical  or  consoli- 
dated. In  what  passed  through  the  whole  period  of  these  conventions,  I  have 
gone  on  the  information  of  those  who  were  members  of  them,  being  absent 
myself  on  my  mission  to  France. 

«I  returned  from  that  mission  in  the  first  year  of  the  new  government, 
having  landed  in  Virginia  in  December,  1789,  and  proceeded  to  New  York  in 
March,  1790,  to  enter  on  the  office  of  Secretary  of  State.  Here,  certainly,  I 
found  a  state  of  things  which,  of  all  I  had  ever  contemplated,  I  the  least  ex- 
pected. I  had  left  France  in  the  first  year  of  her  revolution,  in  the  fervor  of 
natural  rights,  and  zeal  for  reformation.  My  conscientious  devotion  to  these 
rights  could  not  be  heightened,  but  it  had  been  aroused  and  excited  by  daily 
exercise.  The  President  received  me  cordially,  and  my  colleagues  and  the 
circle  of  principal  citizens  apparently  with  welcome.  The  courtesies  of  dinner 
parties  given  me,  as  a  stranger  newly  arrived  among  them,  placed  me  at  once 
in  their  familiar  society.  But  I  cannot  describe  the  wonder  and  mortification 
with  which  the  table  conversation  filled  me.  Politics  were  the  chief  topic,  and 
a  preference  of  kingly  over  republican  government  was  evidently  the  favorite 
sentiment.  An  apostate  I  could  not  be,  nor  yet  a  hypocrite;  and  I  found  my- 
self, for  the  most  part,  the  only  advocate  on  the  republican  side  of  the  ques- 
tion, unless   among    the   guests    there   chanced    to    be    some    member   of   that 


2064  ALEXANDER  HAMILTON 

party  from  the  legislative  houses.  Hamilton's  financial  system  had  then 
passed.  It  had  two  objects:  first,  as  a  puzzle,  to  exclude  popular  understand- 
ing and  inquiry;  second,  as  a  machine  for  the  corruption  of  the  legislature, — 
for  he  avowed  the  opinion  that  man  could  be  governed  by  one  of  two  motives 
only,  force  or  interest;  force,  he  observed,  in  this  country  was  out  of  the  ques- 
tion, and  the  interests,  therefore,  of. the  members  must  be  laid  hold  of,  to  keep 
the  legislative  in  unison  with  the  executive.  And  with  grief  and  shame  it 
must  be  acknowledged  that  his  machine  was  not  without  efifect;  that  even  in 
this,  the  birth  of  our  government,  some  members  were  found  sordid  enough  to 
bend  their  duty  to  their  interests,  and  to  look  after  personal  rather  than  pub- 
lic good.>> 

This  defines  the  partisan  issue  on  which  the  Federalist  party  was 
defeated  and  disorganized  in  1800.  Hamilton,  who  had  been  Secretary 
of  the  Treasury  from  1789  to  1795,  was  appointed  Commander  in  Chief 
of  the  army  in  1799,  and  he  was  the  real  leader  of  the  Federalist  party 
in  the  struggle  which  seemed  to  result  in  the  complete  repudiation 
of  his  ideas.  This  appearance  was  delusive,  however,  for  his  ideas 
represent  the  inevitable  tendencies  of  all  parties  when  they  are  in 
administration;  and  regardless  of  party  names  and  individual  prefer- 
ences, the  Hamiltonian  idea  came  back  under  Jefferson's  own  admin- 
istration and  developed  until  it  resulted  in  John  Quincy  Adams. 
Briefly  stated,  it  was  that  governments  are  founded  to  do  everything 
which,  in  their  own  opinion,  promote  the  general  welfare.  Jefferson's 
theory  was  that  their  object  is  the  exercise  of  granted  powers  as 
trustees  acting  under  instructions  from  the  grantors.  The  Embargo 
and  the  purchase  of  Louisiana  without  waiting  for  the  constitutional 
amendment  which  Jefferson  said  was  necessary  to  authorize  it,  were 
in  full  accord  with  Hamilton's  ideal  of  government,  and  but  for  Burr's 
bullet  he  might  have  lived  to  indorse  as  ideal  Republicanism  that 
for  favoring  which  he  himself  had  been  so  hotly  denounced  as  a  dis- 
guised monarchist.  John  Adams,  who  represented  with  Hamilton  the 
Federalistic  idea  in  the  campaign  of  1800,  did  live  to  renew  toward 
Jefferson  the  esteem  which  had  characterized  their  association  in 
the  early  days  of  the  struggle  against  England.  Every  party  in  op- 
position must  become  more  or  less  Jeffersonian  to  succeed,  while  the 
whole  tendency  of  power  is  to  make  every  party  in  administration 
Hamiltonian.  Perhaps  this  is  logic  in  which  reason  ought  never  to 
acquiesce,  but  it  is  the  logic  of  events ;  and  except  as  it  is  checked  by 

reason,  it  controls. 

W.  V.  B. 


ALEXANDEK.    HAMILTON  20t>5 


ON   WAR   BETWEEN   THE   STATES   OF   THE   UNION 

ASSUMING  it  as  an  established  truth  that  in  case  of  disunion 
the  several  states,  or  such  combinations  of  them  as  might 
happen  to  be  formed  out  of  the  wreck  of  the  general  con- 
federacy, would  be  subject  to  those  vicissitudes  of  peace  and  war, 
of  friendship  and  enmity  with  each  other,  which  have  fallen  to 
the  lot  of  all  neighboring  nations  not  united  under  one  govern- 
ment, let  us  enter  into  a  concise  detail  of  some  of  the  conse- 
quences that  would  attend  such  a  situation. 

War  between  the  states,  in  the  first  periods  of  their  separate 
existence,  would  be  accompanied  with  much  greater  distresses 
than  it  commonly  is  in  those  countries  where  regular  military 
establishments  have  long  obtained.  The  disciplined  armies  always 
kept  on  foot  on  the  continent  of  Europe,  though  they  bear  a 
malignant  aspect  to  liberty  and  economy,  have,  notwithstanding, 
been  productive  of  the  signal  advantage  of  rendering  sudden 
conquests  impracticable,  and  of  preventing  that  rapid  desolation 
which  used  to  mark  the  progress  of  war  prior  to  their  introduc- 
tion. The  art  of  fortification  has  contributed  to  the  same  ends. 
The  nations  of  Europe  are  encircled  with  chains  of  fortified 
places,  which  mutually  obstruct  invasion.  Campaigns  are  wasted 
in  reducing  two  or  three  frontier  garrisons,  to  gain  admittance 
into  an  enemy's  country.  Similar  impediments  occur  at  every 
step,  to  exhaust  the  strength,  and  delay  the  progress  of  an  in- 
vader. Formerly  an  invading  army  would  penetrate  into  the 
heart  of  a  neighboring  country,  almost  as  soon  as  intelligence  of 
its  approach  could  be  received;  but  now,  a  comparatively  small 
force  of  disciplined  troops,  acting  on  the  defensive,  with  the  aid 
of  posts,  is  able  to  impede,  and  finally  to  frustrate  the  enter- 
prises of  one  much  more  considerable.  The  history  of  war,  in 
that  quarter  of  the  globe,  is  no  longer  a  history  of  nations  sub- 
dued, and  empires  overturned;  but  of  towns  taken  and  retaken 
—  of  battles  that  decide  nothing  —  of  retreats  more  beneficial 
than  victories — of  much  effort  and  little  acquisition. 

In  this  country  the  scene  would  be -altogether  reversed.  The 
jealousy  of  military  establishments  would  postpone  them  as  long 
as  possible.  The  want  of  fortifications,  leaving  the  frontiers  of 
one  ,state  open  to  another,  would  facilitate  inroads.  The  populous 
states  would,  with  little  difficulty,  overrun  their  less  populous 
VI — 130 


2o66  ALEXANDER  HAMILTON 

neighbors.  Conquests  would  be  as  easy  to  be  made,  as  difficult 
to  be  retained.  War,  therefore,  would  be  desultory  and  preda- 
tory. Plunder  and  devastation  ever  march  in  the  train  of  irregu- 
lars. The  calamities  of  individuals  would  make  the  principal 
figure  in  the  events  which  would  characterize  our  military  ex- 
ploits. 

This  picture  is  not  too  highly  wrought;  though,  I  confess,  it 
would  not  long  remain  a  just  one.  Safety  from  external  danger 
is  the  most  powerful  director  of  national  conduct.  Even  the 
ardent  love  of  liberty  will,  after  a  time,  give  way  to  its  dictates. 
The  violent  destruction  of  life  and  property  incident  to  war,  the 
continual  effort  and  alarm  attendant  on  a  state  of  continual  dan- 
ger, will  compel  nations  the  most  attached  to  liberty  to  resort 
for  repose  and  security  to  institutions  which  have  a  tendency  to 
destroy  their  civil  and  political  rights.  To  be  more  safe,  they  at 
length  become  willing  to  run  the  risk  of  being  less  free. 

The  institutions  chiefly  alluded  to  are  standing  armies,  and  the 
correspondent  appendages  of  military  establishment.  Standing 
armies,  it  is  said,  are  not  provided  against  in  the  new  constitu- 
tion; and  it  is  thence  inferred  that  they  would  exist  under  it. 
This  inference,  from  the  very  form  of  the  proposition,  is,  at  best, 
problematical  and  uncertain.  But  standing  armies,  it  may  be  re- 
plied, must  inevitably  result  from  a  dissolution  of  the  confederacy. 
Frequent  war,  and  constant  apprehension,  which  require  a  state 
of  as  constant  preparation,  will  infallibly  produce  them.  The 
weaker  states  or  confederacies  would  first  have  recourse  to  them, 
to  put  themselves  upon  an  equality  with  their  more  potent  neigh- 
bors. They  would  endeavor  to  supply  the  inferiority  of  popula- 
tion and  resources  by  a  more  regular  and  effective  system  of 
defense,  by  disciplined  troops,  and  by  fortifications.  They  would, 
at  the  same  time,  be  obliged  to  strengthen  the  executive  arm  of 
government;  in  doing  which,  their  constitutions  would  acquire  a 
progressive  direction  towards  monarchy.  It  is  of  the  nature  of 
war  to  increase  the  executive  at  the  expense  of  the  legislative 
authority. 

The  expedients  which  have  been  mentioned  would  soon  give 
the  states  or  confederacies  that  made  use  of  them  a  superiority 
over  their  neighbors.  Small  states,  or  states  of  less  natural 
strength,  under  vigorous  governments,  and  with  the  assistance  of 
disciplined  armies,  have  often  triumphed  over  large  states,  or 
states  of   greater  natural  strength,  which  have  been  destitute  of 


ALEXANDER  HAMILTON  2067 

these  advantages.  Neither  the  pride  nor  the  safety  of  the  more 
important  states  or  confederacies  would  permit  them  long  to  sub- 
mit to  this  mortifying  and  adventitious  superiority.  They  would 
quickly  resort  to  means  similar  to  those  by  which  it  had  been 
effected,  to  reinstate  themselves  in  their  lost  pre-eminence.  Thus 
we  should,  in  a  little  time,  see  established  in  every  part  of  this 
country,  the  same  engines  of  despotism  which  have  been  the 
scourge  of  the  Old  World.  This,  at  least,  would  be  the  natural 
course  of  things;  and  our  reasonings  will  be  likely  to  be  just,  in 
proportion  as  they  are  accommodated  to  this  standard. 

These  are  not  vague  inferences,  deduced  from  speculative  de- 
fects in  a  constitution,  the  whole  power  of  which  is  lodged  in 
the  hands  of  the  people,  or  their  representatives  and  delegates; 
they  are  solid  conclusions  drawn  from  the  natural  and  necessary 
progress  of  human  affairs. 

It  may  perhaps  be  asked  by  way  of  objections,  why  did  not 
standing  armies  spring  up  out  of  the  contentions  which  so  often 
distracted  the  ancient  republics  of  Greece  ?  Different  answers, 
equally  satisfactory,  may  be  given  to  this  question.  The  indus- 
trious habits  of  the  people  of  the  present  day,  absorbed  in  the 
pursuits  of  gain,  and  devoted  to  the  improvements  of  agriculture 
and  commerce,  are  incompatible  with  the  condition  of  a  nation 
of  soldiers,  which  was  the  true  condition  of  the  people  of  those 
republics.  The  means  of  revenue,  which  have  been  so  greatly 
multiplied  by  the  increase  of  gold  and  silver,  and  of  the  arts  of 
industry,  and  the  science  of  finance,  which  is  the  offspring  of 
modern  times,  concurring  with  the  habits  of  nations,  have  pro- 
duced an  entire  revolution  in  the  system  of  war,  and  have  ren- 
dered disciplined  armies,  distinct  from  the  body  of  citizens,  the 
inseparable  companion  of  frequent  hostility. 

There  is  a  wide  difference,  also,  between  military  establish- 
ments in  a  country  which,  by  its  situation,  is  seldom  exposed  to 
invasions,  and  in  one  which  is  often  subject  to  them,  and  always 
apprehensive  of  them.  The  rulers  of  the  former  can  have  no 
good  pretext,  if  they  are  even  so  inclined,  to  keep  on  foot  armies 
so  numerous  as  must  of  necessity  be  maintained  in  the  latter. 
These  armies  being,  in  the  first  case,  farely,  if  at  all,  called  into 
activity  for  interior  defense,  the  people  are  in  danger  of  being 
broken  to  military  subordination.  The  laws  are  not  accustomed 
to  relaxations  in  favor  of  military  exigencies;  the  civil  state  re- 
mains  in   full  vigor,  neither   corrupted   nor   confounded  with  the 


2o6S  ALEXANDER    HAMILTON 

principles  or  propensities  of  the  other  state.  The  smallness  of 
the  army  forbids  competition  with  the  natural  strength  of  the 
community,  and  the  citizens,  not  habituated  to  look  up  to  the 
military  power  for  protection,  or  to  submit  to  its  oppressions, 
neither  love  nor  fear  the  soldiery:  they  view  them  with  a  spirit 
of  jealous  acquiescence  in  a  necessary  evil,  and  stand  ready  to 
resist  a  power  which  they  suppose  may  be  exerted  to  the  preju- 
dice of  their  rights. 

The  army,  under  such  circumstances,  though  it  may  usefully 
aid  the  magistrate  to  suppress  a  small  faction,  or  an  occasional 
mob  or  insurrection,  will  be  utterly  incompetent  to  the  purpose 
of  enforcing  encroachments  against  the  united  efforts  of  the 
great  body  of  the  people. 

But  in  a  country  where  the  perpetual  menacings  of  danger 
oblige  the  government  to  be  always  prepared  to  repel  it,  her 
armies  must  be  numerous  enough  for  instant  defense.  The  con- 
tinual necessity  for  his  services  enhances  the  importance  of  the 
soldier,  and  proportionably  degrades  the  condition  of  the  citizen. 
The  military  state  becomes  elevated  above  the  civil.  The  inhab- 
itants of  territories,  often  the  theatre  of  war,  are  unavoidably 
subjected  to  frequent  infringements  on  their  rights,  which  serve 
to  weaken  their  sense  of  those  rights;  and  by  degrees,  the  peo- 
ple are  brought  to  consider  the  soldiery  not  only  as  their  pro- 
tectors, but  as  their  superiors.  The  transition  from  this  disposition 
to  that  of  considering  them  as  masters  is  neither  remote  nor  dif- 
ficult, but  it  is  very  difficult  to  prevail  upon  a  people  under  such 
impressions  to  make  a  bold  or  effectual  resistance  to  usurpa- 
tions, supported  by  the  military  power. 

The  kingdom  of  Great  Britain  falls  within  the  first  descrip- 
tion. An  insular  situation  and  a  powerful  marine,  guarding  it  in 
a  great  measure  against  the  possibility  of  foreign  invasion,  su- 
persede the  necessity  of  a  numerous  army  within  the  kingdom. 
A  sufficient  force  to  make  head  against  a  sudden  descent  till  the 
militia  could  have  time  to  rally  and  embody  is  all  that  has  been 
deemed  requisite.  No  motive  of  national  policy  has  demanded, 
nor  would  public  opinion  have  tolerated  a  larger  number  of  troops 
upon  its  domestic  establishment.  This  peculiar  felicity  of  situa- 
tion has,  in  a  great  degree,  contributed  to  preserve  the  liberty 
which  that  country  to  this  day  enjoys,  in  spite  of  the  prevalent 
venality  and  corruption.  If  Britain  had  been  situated  on  the  con- 
tinent, and  had  been  compelled,  as  she  would  have  been  by  that 


ALEXANDER  HAMILTON  2069 

situation,  to  make  her  military  establishments  at  home  coextensive 
with  those  of  the  other  great  powers  of  Europe,  she,  like  them, 
would,  in  all  probability,  at  this  day  be  a  victim  to  the  absolute 
power  of  a  single  man.  It  is  possible,  though  not  easy,  for  the 
people  of  that  island  to  be  enslaved  from  other  causes;  but  it 
cannot  be  by  the  prowess  of  an  army  so  inconsiderable  as  that 
which  has  been  usually  kept  up  within  the  kingdom. 

If  we  are  wise  enough  to  preserve  the  union,  we  may  for  ages 
enjoy  an  advantage  similar  to  that  of  an  insulated  situation.  Eu- 
rope is  at  a  great  distance  from  us.  Her  colonies  in  our  vicinity 
will  be  likely  to  continue  too  much  disproportioned  in  strength 
to  be  able  to  give  us  any  dangerous  annoyance.  Extensive  mili- 
tary establishments  cannot,  in  this  position,  be  necessary  to  our 
security.  But  if  we  should  be  disunited,  and  the  integral  parts 
should  either  remain  separated,  or,  which  is  most  probable,  should 
be  thrown  together  into  two  or  three  confederacies,  we  should  be, 
in  a  short  course  of  time,  in  the  predicament  of  the  continental 
powers  of  Europe.  Our  liberties  would  be  a  prey  to  the  means 
of  defending  ourselves  against  the  ambition  and  jealousy  of  each 
other. 

This  is  an  idea  not  superficial  nor  futile,  but  solid  and  weighty. 
It  deserves  the  most  serious  and  mature  consideration  of  every 
prudent  and  honest  man,  of  whatever  party.  If  such  men  will 
make  a  firm  and  solemn  pause,  and  meditate  dispassionately  on 
its  vast  importance;  if  they  will  contemplate  it  in  all  its  attitudes, 
and  trace  it  to  all  its  consequences,  they  will  not  hesitate  to  part 
with  trivial  objections  to  a  constitution,  the  rejection  of  which 
would,  in  all  probability,  put  a  final  period  to  the  Union.  The 
airy  phantoms  that  now  flit  before  the  distempered  imaginations 
of  some  of  its  adversaries  would  then  quickly  give  place  to  the  more 
substantial  prospects  of  dangers,  real,  certain,  and  extremely  for- 
midable. 

Number  VIII.  complete.    From 
the  Federalist. 


207*^ 


J.  C.  AND  A.  W.  HARE 

(1795-1855;  1792-1834) 

[uESSES  at  Truth, »  a  series  of  charming  essays  by  Julius  Charles 
and  Augustus  William  Hare,  was  published  as  their  joint 
work  in  1827.  The  authors  were  brothers  and  both  clergy- 
men of  the  Church  of  England.  Julius  Charles  Hare,  who  became 
Archdeacon  of  Lewes  in  1840,  was  celebrated  as  a  pulpit  orator  and 
as  the  author  of  several  books  on  divinity  and  ecclesiastical  subjects. 
His  sermons  often  present  examples  of  melodious  «  concords  of  sweet 
sounds,  >>  which  make  them  almost  unique  in  the  pulpit  oratory  of  the 
English  language.  «  Guesses  at  Truth,  *>  however,  is  the  work  by  which 
he  is  best  remembered. 


THAT   IT   IS   BETTER   TO   LAUGH   THAN   TO   CRY 

J^IDENTEM  dicer e  verum  quid  vetat  ?  In  the  first  place  all  the 
-**-  sour  faces  in  the  world,  stiffening  into  a  yet  more  rigid 
asperity  at  the  least  glimpse  of  a  smile.  I  have  seen  faces, 
too,  which  so  long  as  you  let  them  lie  in  their  sleepy  torpor,  un- 
shaken and  unstirred,  have  a  creamy  softness  and  smoothness,  and 
might  beguile  you  into  suspecting  their  owners  of  being  gentle; 
but  if  they  catch  the  sound  of  a  laugh,  it  acts  on  them  like  thun- 
der, and  they  also  turn  sour.  Nay,  strange  4s  it  may  seem,  there 
have  been  such  incarnate  paradoxes  as  would  rather  see  their 
fellow-creatures  cry  than  smile. 

But  is  not  this  in  exact  accordance  with  the  spirit  which  pro- 
nounces a  blessing  on  the  weeper,  and  a  woe  on  the  laugher  ? 

Not  in  the  persons  I  have  in  view.  That  blessing  and  woe 
are  pronounced  in  the  knowledge  how  apt  the  course  of  this  world 
is  to  run  counter  to  the  kingdom  of  God.  They  who  weep  are 
declared  to  be  blessed,  not  because  they  weep,  but  because  they 
shall  laugh;  and  the  woe  threatened  to  the  laughers  is  in  like 
manner,  that  they  shall  mourn  and  weep.  Therefore,  they  who 
have  this  spirit  in  them  will  endeavor  to  forward  the  blessing 
and  to  avert  the  woe.     They  will  try  to  comfort  the  mourner,  so 


J.  C.  AND  A.  W.  HARE  2071 

as  to  lead  him  to  rejoice ;  and  they  will  warn  the  laugher,  that  he 
may  be  preserved  from  the  mourning  and  weeping,  and  may  ex- 
change his  passing  for  lasting  joy.  But  there  are  many  who  merely 
indulge  in  the  antipathy,  without  opening  their  hearts  to  the  sym- 
pathy. Such  is  the  spirit  found  in  those  who  have  cast  off  the 
bonds  of  the  lower  earthly  affections,  without  having  risen  as  yet 
into  the  freedom  of  heavenly  love  —  in  those  who  have  stopped 
short  in  the  state  of  transition  between  the  two  lives,  like  so  many 
skeletons  stripped  of  their  earthly,  and  not  yet  clothed  with  a 
heavenly  body.  It  is  the  spirit  of  stoicism,  for  instance,  in  phi- 
losophy, and  of  vulgar  fatalism,  which  in  so  many  things  answers 
to  stoicism  in  religion.  They  who  feel  the  harm  they  have  re- 
ceived from  worldly  pleasures  are  prone  at  first  to  quarrel  with 
pleasure  of  every  kind  altogether;  and  it  is  one  of  the  strange  per- 
versities of  our  self-will  to  entertain  anger,  instead  of  pity,  towards 
those  whom  we  fancy  to  judge  or  act  less  wisely  than  ourselves. 
This,  however,  is  only  while  the  scaffolding  is  still  standing  around 
the  edifice  of  their  Christian  life,  so  that  they  cannot  see  clearly 
out  of  the  windows,  and  their  view  is  broken  up  into  disjointed 
parts.  When  the  scaffolding  is  removed,  and  they  look  abroad 
without  hindrance,  they  are  readier  than  any  to  delight  in  all  the 
beauty  and  true  pleasure  around  them.  They  feel  that  it  is  their 
blessed  calling,  not  only  to  rejoice  always  themselves,  but  likewise 
to  rejoice  with  all  who  do  rejoice  in  innocence  of  heart.  They 
feel  that  this  must  be  well-pleasing  to  him  who  has  filled  his  uni- 
verse with  ever-bubbling  springs  of  gladness ;  so  that  whithersoever 
we  turn  our  eyes,  through  earth  and  sky  as  well  as  sea,  we  be- 
hold the  dvrjfjcd/iov  yilaaim  of  nature.  On  the  other  hand,  it  is  the 
harshness  of  an  irreligious  temper  clothing  itself  in  religious  zeal, 
and  not  seldom  exhibiting  symptoms  of  mental  disorganization, 
that  looks  scowlingly  on  every  indication  of  happiness  and 
mirth. 

Moreover,  there  is  a  large  class  of  people  who  deem  the  busi- 
ness of  life  far  too  weighty  and  momentous  to  be  made  light  of; 
who  would  leave  merriment  to  children,  and  laughter  to  idiots; 
and  who  hold  that  a  joke  would  be  as  much  out  of  place  on 
their  lips  as  on  a  gravestone  or  in  a  ledger.  Wit  and  wisdom 
being  sisters,  not  only  are  they  afraid  of  being  indicted  for 
bigamy  were  they  to  wed  them  both,  but  they  shudder  at  such 
a  union  as  incestuous.  So,  to  keep  clear  of  temptation,  and  to 
preserve   their  faith  where   they  have  plighted  it,  they  turn  the 


2072  J.  C.  AND  A.  W.  HARE 

younger  out  of  doors;  and  if  they  see  or  hear  of  anybody  tak- 
ing her  in,  they  are  positive  he  can  know  nothing  of  the  elder. 
They  would  not  be  witty  for  the  world.  Now,  to  escape  being 
so  is  not  very  difficult  for  those  whom  nature  has  so  favored 
that  wit  with  them  is  always  at  zero,  or  below  it.  Or,  as  to 
their  wisdom,  since  they  are  careful  never  to  overfeed  her,  she 
jogs  leisurely  along  the  turnpike  road,  with  lank  and  meagre  car- 
cass, displaying  all  her  bones,  and  never  getting  out  of  her  own 
dust.  She  feels  no  inclination  to  be  frisky,  but  if  a  coach  or 
wagon  passes  her,  is  glad,  Hke  her  rider,  to  run  behind  a  thing 
so  big.  Now,  all  these  people  take  grievous  offense  if  any  one 
comes  near  them  better  mounted,  and  they  are  in  a  tremor  lest 
the  neighing  and  snorting  and  prancing  should  be  contagious. 

Surely,  however,  ridicule  implies  contempt;  and  so  the  feeling 
must  be  condemnable,  subversive  of  gentleness,  incompatible  with 
kindness  ? 

Not  necessarily  so,  or  universally;  far  from  it.  The  word 
ridicule,  it  is  true,  has  a  narrow,  one-sided  meaning.  From  our 
proneness  to  mix  up  personal  feelings  with  those  which  are  more 
purely  objective  and  intellectual,  we  have  in  great  measure  re- 
stricted the  meaning  of  ridicule,  which  would  properly  extend 
over  the  whole  region  of  the  ridiculous,  the  laughable,  where  we 
may  disport  ourselves  innocently,  without  any  evil  emotion;  and 
we  have  narrowed  it,  so  that  in  common  usage  it  mostly  cor- 
responds to  derision,  which  does  indeed  involve  personal  and 
ofEensive  feelings.  As  the  great  business  of  Wisdom  in  her  spec- 
ulative office  is  to  detect  and  reveal  the  hidden  harmonies  of 
things,  those  harmonies  which  are  the  sources  and  the  ever- 
flowing  emanations  of  law,  the  dealings  of  wit,  on  the  other 
hand,  are  with  incongruities.  And  it  is  the  perception  of  incon- 
gruity, flashing  upon  us,  when  unaccompanied,  as  Aristotle  ob- 
serves (Poet.,  Chap,  v.),  by  pain,  or  by  any  predominant  moral 
disgust,  that  provokes  laughter  and  excites  the  feeling  of  the 
ridiculous.  But  it  no  more  follows  that  the  perception  of  such 
an  incongruity  must  breed  or  foster  haughtiness  or  disdain  than 
that  the  perception  of  anything  else  that  may  be  erroneous  or 
wrong  should  do  so.  You  might  as  well  argue  that  a  man  must 
be  proud  and  scornful  because  he  sees  that  there  is  such  a  thing 
as  sin,  or  such  a  thing  as  folly,  in  the  world.  Yet,  unless  we 
blind  our  eyes,  and  gag  our  ears,  and  hoodwink  our  minds,  we 
shall  seldom  pass  through  a  day  without   having   some   form    of 


J.  C.  AND  A.  W.  HARE  2073 

evil  brought  in  one  way  or  other  before  us.  Besides,  the  percep- 
tion of  incongruity  may  exist,  and  may  awaken  laughter,  without 
the  slightest  reprobation  of  the  object  laughed  at.  We  laugh  at 
a  pun,  surely  without  a  shade  of  contempt  either  for  the  words 
punned  upon  or  for  the  punster;  and  if  a  very  bad  pun  be  the 
next  best  thing  to  a  very  good  one,  this  is  not  from  its  flatter- 
ing any  feeling  of  superiority  in  us,  but  because  the  incongruity 
is  broader  and  more  glaring.  Nor  when  we  laugh  at  a  droll 
combination  of  imagery  do  we  feel  any  contempt,  but  often  ad- 
miration at  the  ingenuity  shown  in  it,  and  an  almost  affectionate 
thankfulness  toward  the  person  by  whom  we  have  been  amused, 
such  as  is  rarely  excited  by  any  other  display  of  intellectual 
power,  as  those  who  have  ever  enjoyed  the  delight  of  Professor 
Sedgwick's  society  will  bear  witness. 

It  is  true,  an  exclusive  attention  to  the  ridiculous  side  of 
things  is  hurtful  to  the  character  and  destructive  of  earnestness 
and  gravity.  But  no  less  mischievous  is  it  to  fix  our  attention 
exclusively,  or  even  mainly,  on  the  vices  and  other  follies  of 
mankind.  Such  contemplations,  unless  counteracted  by  whole- 
somer  thoughts,  harden  or  rot  the  heart,  deaden  the  moral  prin- 
ciple, and  make  us  hopeless  and  reckless.  The  objects  toward 
which  we  should  turn  our  minds  habitually  are  those  which  are 
great,  and  good,  and  pure;  the  throne  of  virtue,  and  she  who 
sits  upon  it;  the  majesty  of  truth,  the  beauty  of  holiness.  This 
is  the  spiritual  sky  through  which  we  should  strive  to  mount, 
**  springing  from  crystal  step  to  crystal  step,  **  and  bathing  our 
souls  in  its  living,  life-giving  ether.  These  are  the  thoughts  by 
which  we  should  whet  and  polish  our  swords  for  the  warfare 
against  evil,  that  the  vapors  of  the  earth  may  not  rust  them. 
But  in  a  warfare  against  evil,  under  one  or  other  of  its  forms, 
we  are  all  of  us  called  to  engage ;  and  it  is  a  childish  dream  to 
fancy  that  we  can  walk  about  among  mankind  without  perpetual 
necessity  of  remarking  that  the  world  is  full  of  many  worse  in- 
congruities besides  those  which  make  us  laugh. 

Nor  do  I  deny  that  a  laugher  may  often  be  a  scoffer  and  a 
scorner.  Some  jesters  are  fools  of  a  worse  breed  than  those  who 
used  to  wear  the  cap.  Sneering  is  commonly  found  along  with 
a  bitter  splenetic  misanthrophy ;  or  it  may  be  a  man's  mockery 
at  his  own  hollow  heart,  venting  itself  in  mockery  at  others. 
Criielty  will  try  to  season  or  to  palliate  its  atrocities  by  derisioll. 
The   hyena  grins  in   its  den;    most   wild    beasts  over    their   prey. 


2074  J-  C.  AND  A.  W.  HARE 

But  though  a  certain  kind  of  wit,  like  other  intellectual  gifts, 
may  coexist  with  moral  depravity,  there  has  often  been  a  play- 
fulness in  the  best  and  greatest  men, —  in  Phocion,  in  Socrates, 
in  Luther,  in  Sir  Thomas  More, —  which,  as  it  were,  adds  abloom 
to  the  severer  graces  of  their  character,  shining  forth  with  ama- 
ranthine brightness  when  storms  assail  them,  and  springing  up 
in  fresh  blossoms  under  the  ax  of  the  executioner.  How  much 
is  our  affection  for  Hector  increased  by  his  tossing  his  boy  in 
his  arms,  and  laughing  at  his  childish  fears!  Smiles  are  the  lan- 
guage of  love;  they  betoken  the  complacency  and  delight  of  the 
heart  in  the  object  of  its  contemplation.  Why  are  we  to  assume 
that  there  must  needs  be  bitterness  or  contempt  in  them,  when 
they  enforce  a  truth  or  reprove  an  error  ?  On  the  contrary,  some 
of  those  who  hav«  been  richest  in  wit  and  humor  have  been 
among  the  simplest  and  kindest-hearted  of  men.  I  will  only 
instance  Fuller,  Bishop  Earle,  La  Fontaine,  Matthias  Claudius, 
Charles  Lamb.  Le  mdchant  n'est  jamais  comique  is  wisely  remarked 
by  De  Maistre,  when  canvassing  the  pretensions  of  Voltaire 
(Soirees,  i.  273);  and  the  converse  is  equally  true:  Le  comique, 
le  vrai  comique,  rCest  jamais  mdchant.  A  laugh,  to  be  joyous, 
must  flow  from  a  joyous  heart;  but  without  kindness  there  can 
be  no  true  joy.  And  what  a  dull,  plodding,  tramping,  clanking 
would  the  ordinary  intercourse  of  society  be  without  wit  to  en- 
liven and  brighten  it!  When  two  men  meet  they  seem  to  be 
kept  at  bay  through  the  estranging  effects  of  absence,  until  some 
sportive  sally  opens  their  hearts  to  each  other.  Nor  does  any- 
thing spread  cheerfulness  so  rapidly  over  a  whole  party,  or  an 
assembly  of  people,  however  large.  Reason  expands  the  soul  of 
the  philosopher;  imagination  glorifies  the  poet,  and  breathes  a 
breath  of  spring  through  the  young  and  genial;  but  if  we  take 
into  account  the  numberless  glances  and  gleams  whereby  wit 
lightens  our  every-day  life,  I  hardly  know  what  power  ministers 
so  bountifully  to  the  innocent  pleasures  of  mankind. 

Surely,  too,  it  cannot  be  requisite  to  a  man's  being  in  ear- 
nest that  he  should  wear  a  perpetual  frown.  Or  is  there  less  of 
sincerity  in  Nature  during  her  gambols  in  spring  than  during 
the  stiffness  and  harshness  of  her  wintry  gloom  ?  Does  not  the 
bird's  blithe  carolling  come  from  the  heart  quite  as  much  as  the 
quadruped's  monotonous  cry  ?  And  is  it  then  altogether  impos- 
sible to  take  up  one's  abode  with  Truth,  and  to  let  all  sweet 
homely  feelings  grow  about  it  and  cluster  around  it,  and  to  smile 


J.  C.  AND  A.  W.  HARE  2075 

upon  it  as  on  a  kind  father  or  mother,  and  to  sport  with  it,  and 
hold  light  and  merry  talk  with  it,  as  with  a  loved  brother  or 
sister;  and  to  fondle  it,  and  play  with  it,  as  with  a  child?  No 
otherwise  did  Socrates  and  Plato  commune  with  Truth;  no  other- 
wise Cervantes  and  Shakespeare.  This  playfulness  of  Truth  is 
beautifully  represented  by  Landor,  in  the  conversation  between 
Marcus  Cicero  and  his  brother,  in  an  allegory  which  has  the  voice 
and  the  spirit  of  Plato.  On  the  other  hand,  the  outcries  of  those 
who  exclaim  against  every  sound  more  lively  than  a  bray  or  a 
bleat,  as  derogatory  to  truth,  are  often  prompted,  not  so  much  by 
their  deep  feeling  of  the  dignity  of  the  truth  in  question,  as  of 
the  dignity  of  the  person  by  whom  that  truth  is  maintained.  It 
is  our  vanity,  our  self-conceit,  that  makes  us  so  sore  and  irritable. 
To  a  grave  argument  we  may  reply  gravely,  and  fancy  that  we 
have  the  best  of  it;  but  he  who  is  too  dull  or  too  angry  to  smile 
cannot  answer  a  smile,  except  by  fretting  and  fuming.  Olivia 
lets  us  into  the  secret  of  Malvolio's  distaste  for  the  Clown. 

For  the  full  expansion  of  the  intellect,  moreover,  to  preserve 
it  from  that  narrowness  and  partial  warp  which  our  proneness  to 
give  ourselves  up  to  the  sway  of  the  moment  is  apt  to  produce, 
its  various  faculties,  however  opposite,  should  grow  and  be  trained 
up  side  by  side  —  should  twine  their  arms  together,  and  strengthen 
each  other  by  love  wrestles.  Thus  will  it  be  best  fitted  for  dis- 
cerning and  acting  upon  the  multiplicity  of  things  which  the 
world  sets  before  it.  Thus,  too,  will  something  like  a  balance 
and  order  be  upheld,  and  our  minds  preserved  from  that  exag- 
geration on  the  one  side,  and  depreciation  on  the  other  side, 
which  are  the  sure  results  of  exclusiveness.  A  poet,  for  instance, 
should  have  much  of  the  philosopher  in  him;  not,  indeed,  thrust- 
ing itself  forward  at  the  surface  —  this  would  only  make  a  mon- 
ster of  his  work,  like  the  Siamese  twins,  neither  one  thing  nor 
two  —  but  latent  within;  the  spindle  should  be  out  of  sight,  but 
the  web  should  be  spun  by  the  Fates.  A  philosopher,  on  the 
other  hand,  should  have  much  of  the  poet  in  him.  A  historian 
cannot  be  great  without  combining  the  elements  of  the  two  minds. 
A  statesman  ought  to  unite  those  of  all  the  three.  A  great  re- 
ligious teacher,  such  as  Socrates,  Bernard,  Luther,  Schleiermacher, 
needs  the  statesman's  practical  power  of  dealing  with  men  and 
things,  as  well  as  the  historian's  insight  into  their  growth  and 
purpose.  He  needs  the  philosopher's  ideas,  impregnated  and  im- 
personated by  the  imagination  of  the  poet.      In  like  manner,  our 


ioy6  J.  C.  AND  A.  W.  HARE 

graver  faculties  and  thoughts  are  much  chastened  and  bettered 
by  a  blending  and  interfusion  of  the  lighter,  so  that  ^^  the  sable 
cloud "  may  "  turn  her  silver  lining  on  the  night " ;  while  our 
lighter  thoughts  require  the  graver  to  substantiate  them  and  keep 
them  from  evaporating.  Thus  Socrates  is  said,  in  Plato's  *^  Ban- 
quet,*' to  have  maintained  that  a  great  tragic  poet  ought  likewise 
to  be  a  great  comic  poet  —  an  observation  the  more  remarkable, 
because  the  tendency  of  the  Greek  mind,  as  at  once  manifested 
in  their  Polytheism,  and  fostered  by  it,  was  to  insulate  all  their 
ideas;  and,  as  it  were,  to  split  up  the  intellectual  world  into  a 
cluster  of  Cyclades,  leading  to  confusion,  is  the  characteristic  of 
modern  times.  The  combination,  however,  was  realized  in  him- 
self, and  in  his  great  pupil;  and  may,  perhaps,  have  been  so  to 
a  certain  extent  in  ^schylus,  if  we  may  judge  from  the  fame  of 
his  satiric  dramas.  At  all  events  the  assertion,  as  has  been  re- 
marked more  than  once  —  for  instance  by  Coleridge  (*^  Remains," 
ii.  12), — is  a  wonderful  prophetical  intuition,  which  has  received 
its  fulfillment  in  Shakespeare.  No  heart  would  have  been  strong 
enough  to  hold  the  woe  of  Lear  and  Othello,  except  that  which 
had  the  unquenchable  elasticity  of  Falstaff  and  the  **  Midsummer 
Night's  Dream."  He,  too,  is  an  example  that  the  perception  of 
the  ridiculous  does  not  necessarily  imply  bitterness  and  scorn. 
Along  with  his  intense  humor,  and  his  equally  intense  piercing 
insight  into  the  darkest,  most  fearful  depths  of  human  nature, 
there  is  still  a  spirit  of  universal  kindness,  as  well  as  universal 
justice,  pervading  his  works;  and  Ben  Jonson  has  left  us  a  pre- 
cious memorial  of  him,  where  he  calls  him  **  My  gentle  Shakes- 
peare." This  one  epithet  sheds  a  beautiful  light  on  his  character; 
its  truth  is  attested  by  his  wisdom,  which  could  never  have  been 
so  perfect  unless  it  had  been  harmonized  by  the  gentleness  of  the 
dove.  A  similar  union  of  the  graver  and  lighter  powers  is  found 
in  several  of  Shakespeare's  contemporaries,  and  in  many  others 
among  the  greatest  poets  of  the  modern  world:  in  Boccaccio,  in 
Cervantes,  in  Chaucer,  in  Goethe,  in  Tieck;  so  was  it  in  Walter 
Scott. 

Complete.     From  «  Guesses  at  Truth. » 


ao77 


JAMES   HARRINGTON 

(1611-1677) 

Ihe  Commonwealth  of  Oceana.  »  by  James  Harrington,  has  been 
called  the  most  curious  book  in  existence,  but  without  at- 
tempting to  contest  its  claims  to  uniqueness,  the  discrimina- 
ting reader  will  remember  that  Swedenborg  and  Fourier  have  written, 
each  in  his  own  way,  on  the  same  subjects  with  which  <<  Oceana  >* 
deals.  It  embodies  Harrington's  ideas  of  how  model  men  would  live 
in  a  model  commonwealth.  Many  of  the  essays  on  morals  and  gov- 
ernment in  it  are  in  the  form  of  speeches  supposed  to  be  delivered 
in  the  political  discussions  of  "Oceana.'^  The  most  distinctive  and 
practical  feature  of  the  work  is  the  <*  Rotation  in  Office,"  on  which 
Harrington  insists  for  all  executive  officers.  The  attempt  at  "  Rota- 
tion *>  in  the  United  States  was  made,  undoubtedly,  as  a  result  of  this 
suggestion. 

Harrington  was  born  in  Northamptonshire,  England,  in  January,  161 1. 
At  Oxford,  he  had  Chillingworth  for  a  tutor,  and  while  still  a  young 
man  enjoyed  the  friendship  of  the  Prince  of  Orange  and  the  Queen 
of  Bohemia.  His  strong  Republican  ideas  did  not  lose  him  the  con- 
fidence of  Charles  I.,  and  he  was  one  of  the  friends  who  accompanied 
the  deposed  king  to  the  scaffold.  «  Oceana  >>  displeased  Cromwell,  and 
he  ordered  its  suppression  while  it  was  in  the  printer's  hands;  but 
Harrington  won  him  over,  and  when  the  book  appeared  in  1656  it 
was  with  a  dedication  to  the  Lord  Protector,  who  then,  if  not  al- 
ways, was  as  far  removed  from  Republican  ideas  as  Charles  I.  him- 
self. Under  Charles  II.,  Harrington  was  imprisoned  until  his  health 
was  broken  and  his  intellectual  powers  impaired.  He  died  Septem- 
ber nth,  1677. 


OF   A   FREE   STATE 

IF  THE  liberty  of  a  man  consists  in  the  empire  of  his  reason,  the 
absence   whereof   would    betray    him    to   the    bondage    of    his 
passions,  then  the  liberty  of  a  commonwealth  consists   in  the 
empire  of  her  laws,  the  absence  whereof  would  betray  her  to  the 
lust  of  tyrants.     And   these  I  conceive  to  be  the  principles  upon 


2078  JAMES  HARRINGTON 

which  Aristotle  and  Livy  (injuriously  accused  by  Leviathan  for 
not  writing  out  of  nature)  have  grounded  their  assertion  that  a 
commonwealth  is  an  empire  of  laws,  and  not  of  men.  But  they 
must  not  carry  it  so.  For,  says  he,  the  liberty,  whereof  there  is 
so  frequent  and  honorable  mention  in  the  history  and  philosophy 
of  the  ancient  Greeks  and  Romans,  and  the  writings  and  dis- 
courses of  those  that  from  them  have  received  all  their  learning 
in  the  politics,  is  not  the  liberty  of  particular  men,  but  the  lib- 
erty of  the  commonwealth.  He  might  as  well  have  said  that 
the  estates  of  particular  men  in  a  commonwealth  are  not  the 
riches  of  particular  men,  but  the  riches  of  the  commonwealth; 
for  equality  of  estates  causes  equality  of  power,  and  equality  of 
power  is  the  liberty  not  only  of  the  commonwealth,  but  of  every 
man.  But  sure  a  man  would  never  be  thus  irreverent  with  the 
greatest  authors,  and  positive  against  all  antiquity,  without  some 
certain  demonstration  of  truth ;  and,  what  is  it  ?  Why,  there  is 
written  on  the  turrets  of  the  city  of  Lucca  in  great  characters  at 
this  day  the  word  Libertas;  yet  no  man  can  thence  infer  that  a 
particular  man  has  more  liberty  or  immunity  from  the  service  of 
the  commonwealth  there  than  in  Constantinople.  Whether  a  com- 
monwealth be  monarchical  or  popular,  the  freedom  is  the  same. 
The  mountain  has  brought  forth,  and  we  have  a  little  equivoca- 
tion! for  to  say  that  a  Lucchese  has  no  more  liberty  or  immunity 
from  the  laws  of  Lucca  than  a  Turk  has  from  those  of  Constan- 
tinople; and  to  say  that  a  Lucchese  has  no  more  liberty  or 
immunity  by  the  laws  of  Lucca  than  a  Turk  has  by  those  of 
Constantinople,  are  pretty  different  speeches.  The  first  may  be 
said  of  all  governments  alike ;  the  second  scarce  of  any  two ; 
much  less  of  these,  seeing  it  is  known  that  whereas  the  greatest 
Basha  is  a  tenant,  as  well  of  his  head  as  of  his  estate,  at 
the  will  of  his  lord,  the  meanest  Lucchese  that  has  land  is  a 
freeholder  of  both,  and  not  to  be  controlled  but  by  the  law,  and 
that  framed  by  every  private  man  to  no  other  end  (or  they  may 
thank  themselves)  than  to  protect  the  liberty  of  every  private 
man,  which  by  that  means  comes  to  be  the  liberty  of  the  com- 
monwealth. 

But  seeing  they  that  make  the  laws  of  the  commonwealth  are 
but  men,  the  main  question  seems  to  be,  how  a  commonwealth 
comes  to  be  an  empire  of  laws  and  not  of  men,  or  how  the  de- 
bate or  result  of  a  commonwealth  is  so  sure   to  be  according   to 


JAMES  HARRINGTON  2079 

reason;    seeing   they  who  debate,   and   they    who   resolve,  be    but 

men.      And  as  often  as  reason  is  against  a  man,   so  often  will  a 

man  be  against  reason. 

From  « Oceana.* 


•  THE  PRINCIPLES   OF   GOVERNMENT 

ALL   government   is   founded    upon    overbalance,    in    propriety, 
power,  or  ownership. 

If   one   man  hold  the  overbalance  unto  the   whole   peo- 
ple in  propriety,  his  propriety  causeth  absolute  monarchy. 

If  the  few  hold  the  overbalance  unto  the  whole  people  in 
propriety,  their  propriety  causeth  aristocracy,  or  mixed  monarchy. 

If  the  whole  people  be  neither  overbalanced  by  the  propriety 
of  one,  nor  of  a  few,  the  propriety  of  the  people  or  of  the  many 
causeth  democracy,  or  popular  government. 

The  government  of  one  against  the  balance  is  tyranny. 

The  government  of  a  few  against  the  balance  is  oligarchy. 

The  government  of  the  many  (or  attempt  of  the  people  to 
govern)  against  the  balance  is  rebellion  or  anarchy. 

Where  the  balance  of  propriety  is  equal,  it  causeth  a  state 
of  war. 

To  hold  that  government  may  be  founded  upon  community 
is  to  hold  that  there  may  be  a  black  swan,  or  a  castle  in  the  air, 
or  that  what  thing  soever  is  as  imaginable,  as  what  hath  been 
in  practice,  must  be  as  practicable  as  what  hath  been  in  practice. 

If  the  overbalance  of  propriety  be  in  one  man,  it  necessitat- 
eth  the  form  of  government  to  be  like  that  of  Turkey. 

If  the  overbalance  of  propriety  be  in  the  few,  it  necessitat- 
eth  the  form  of  government  to  be  like  that  of  king,  lords,  and 
commons. 

If  the  people  be  not  overbalanced  by  one  or  a  few,  they  are 
not    capable    of  any   other   form    of  government   than    that   of   a 

senate  and  a  popular  assembly. 

From  «  Oceana. » 


2o8o 


FREDERIC   HARRISON 

(1831-) 

^REDERic  Harrison's  essay  «0n  the  Choice  of  Books,®  which 
appeared  in  1886,  is  one  of  the  most  notable  literary  essays 
of  the  generation  to  which  its  author  belongs.  It  was  widely 
discussed  and,  it  may  be  imagined,  with  some  asperity  by  the  genera- 
tion which  it  characterized  as  reading  Zola's  seventeenth  romance  and 
listening  to  <<  Pinafore  >^  for  three  hundred  nights.  Such  a  generation, 
according  to  Mr.  Harrison,  will  read  critical  observations  on  the  sub- 
lime and  the  beautiful,  but  will  neither  recognize  them  nor  care  for 
them.  He  speaks  in  a  striking  way  of  the  « nausea  which  idle  cul- 
ture seems  to  produce  »  for  what  is  best  in  literature.  The  symptoms 
he  thus  describes  undoubtedly  existed  to  a  marked  extent  and  they 
were  undoubtedly  diseased,  but  they  belong  as  naturally  to  every 
transition  state  resulting  from  the  diffusion  of  knowledge,  as  measles 
and  similar  disagreeable  eruptions  do  to  childish  growth. 

Harrison  was  born  in  London,  October  i8th,  1831.  He  graduated 
at  Oxford,  studied  law,  and  began  his  literary  career  as  an  essayist 
on  legal  and  ethical  subjects.  Among  his  works  are  "The  Weaving 
of  History, »  «  Order  and  Progress, »  "Social  Statics,  >'  "Oliver  Crom- 
well,»  and  "The  Annals  of  an  Old  Manor  House. » 


ON  THE   CHOICE  OF   BOOKS 

IT  IS  the  fashion  for  those  who  have  any  connection  with  letters, 
in  the  presence  of  thoughtful  men  and  women,  eager  for 
knowledge,  and  anxious  after  all  that  can  be  gotten  from 
books,  to  expatiate  on  the  infinite  blessings  of  literature,  and  the 
miraculous  achievements  of  the  press;  to  extol,  as  a  gift  above 
price,  the  taste  for  study  and  the  love  of  reading.  Far  be  it 
from  me  to  gainsay  the  inestimable  value  of  good  books,  or  to 
discourage  any  man  from  reading  the  best;  but  I  often  think  that 
we  forget  that  other  side  to  this  glorious  view  of  literature :  — 
the  misuse  of  books,  the  debilitating  waste  of  life  in  aimless  pro- 
miscuous vapid  reading,  or  even,  it  may  be,  in  the  poisonous  in- 
halation of  mere  literary  garbage  and  bad  men's  worst  thoughts. 


FREDERIC   HARRISON  2oSii 

For  what  can  a  book  be  more  than  the  man  who  wrote  it  ? 
The  brightest  genius,  perhaps,  never  puts  the  best  of  his  own 
soul  into  his  printed  page;  and  some  of  the  most  famous  men 
have  certainly  put  the  worst  of  theirs.  Yet  are  all  men  desirable 
companions,  much  less  teachers,  fit  to  be  listened  to,  able  to  give 
us  advice,  even  of  those  who  get  reputation  and  command  a  hear- 
ing ?  Or,  to  put  out  of  the  question  that  writing  which  is  posi- 
tively bad,  are  we  not,  amidst  the  multiplicity  of  books  and  of 
writers,  in  continual  danger  of  being  drawn  off  by  what  is  stimu- 
lating rather  than  solid,  by  curiosity  after  something  accidentally 
notorious,  by  what  has  no  intelligible  thing  to  recommend  it,  ex- 
cept that  it  is  new  ?  Now,  to  stuff  our  minds  with  what  is  sim- 
ply trivial,  simply  curious,  or  that  which  at  best  has  but  a  low 
nutritive  power,  this  is  to  close  our  minds  to  what  is  solid  and 
enlarging,  and  spiritually  sustaining.  Whether  our  neglect  of  the 
great  books  comes  from  our  not  reading  at  all,  or  from  an  in- 
corrigible habit  of  reading  the  little  books,  it  ends  in  just  the 
same  thing.  And  that  thing  is  ignorance  of  all  the  greater  litera- 
ture of  the  world.  To  neglect  all  the  abiding  parts  of  knowledge 
for  the  sake  of  the  evanescent  parts  is  really  to  know  nothing 
worth  nothing.  It  is  in  the  end  the  same  thing,  whether  we  do 
not  use  our  minds  for  serious  study  at  all,  or  whether  we  ex- 
haust them  by  an  impotent  voracity  for  idle  and  desultory  "in- 
formation,'^ as  it  is  called  —  a  thing  as  fruitful  as  whistling.  Of 
the  two  plans  I  prefer  the  former.  At  least,  in  that  case,  the 
mind  is  healthy  and  open.  It  is  not  gorged  and  enfeebled  by 
excess  in  that  which  cannot  nourish,  much  less  enlarge  and  beau- 
tify our  nature. 

But  there  is  much  more  than  this.  Even  to  those  who  reso- 
lutely avoid  the  idleness  of  reading  what  is  trivial,  a  difficulty  is 
presented,  a  difficulty  every  day  increasing  by  virtue  even  of  our 
abundance  of  books.  What  are  the  subjects,  what  are  the  class 
of  books  we  are  to  read,  in  what  order,  with  what  connection,  to 
what  ultimate  use  or  object  ?  Even  those  who  are  resolved  to 
read  the  better  books  are  embarrassed  by  a  field  of  choice  prac- 
tically boundless.  The  longest  life,  the  greatest  industry,  the 
most  powerful  memory,  would  not  suffice  to  make  us  profit  from 
a  hundredth  part  of  the  world  of  books  before  us.  If  the  great 
Newton  said  that  he  seemed  to  have  been  all  his  life  gathering 
a  few  shells  on  the  shore,  whilst  a  boundless  ocean  of  truth  still 
lay  beyond  and  unknown  to  him,  how  much  more  to  each  of  us 
VI— 131 


2o82  FREDERIC  HARRISON 

must  the  sea  of  literature  be  a  pathless  immensity  beyond  oxir 
powers  of  vision  or  of  reach, —  an  immensity  in  which  industry 
itself  is  useless  without  judgment,  method,  discipline;  where  it  is 
of  infinite  importance  what  we  can  learn  and  remember,  and  of 
utterly  no  importance  what  we  may  have  once  looked  at  or  heard 
of.  Alas!  the  most  of  our  reading  leaves  as  little  mark  even  in 
our  own  education  as  the  foam  that  gathers  round  the  keel  of  a 
passing  boat!  For  myself,  I  am  inclined  to  think  the  most  use- 
ful part  of  reading  is  to  know  what  we  should  not  read,  what 
we  can  keep  out  from  that  small  cleared  spot  in  the  overgrown 
jungle  of  ^* information,*^  the  corner  which  we  can  call  our  ordered 
patch  of  fruit-bearing  knowledge.  Is  not  the  accumulation  of 
fresh  books  a  fresh  hindrance  to  our  real  knowledge  of  the  old  ? 
Does  not  the  multiplicity  of  volumes  become  a  bar  upon  our  use 
of  any  ?  In  literature  especially  does  it  hold  —  that  we  cannot 
see  the  wood  for  the  trees. 

A  man  of  power,  who  has  got  more  from  books  than  most  of 
his  contemporaries,  has  lately  said :  "  Form  a  habit  of  reading,  do 
not  mind  what  you  read,  the  reading  of  better  books  will  come 
when  you  have  a  habit  of  reading  the  inferior.'*  I  cannot  agree 
with  him.  I  think  a  habit  of  reading  idly  debilitates  and  cor- 
rupts the  mind  for  all  wholesome  reading;  I  think  the  habit  of 
reading  wisely  is  one  of  the  most  difficult  habits  to  acquire, 
needing  strong  resolution  and  infinite  pains;  and  I  hold  the 
habit  of  reading  for  mere  reading's  sake,  instead  of  for  the  sake 
of  the  stuff  we  gain  from  reading,  to  be  one  of  the  worst  and 
commonest  and  most  unwholesome  habits  we  have.  Why  do  we 
still  suffer  the  traditional  hypocrisy  about  the  dignity  of  litera- 
ture,—  literature,  I  mean,  in  the  gross,  which  includes  about  equal 
parts  of  what  is  useful  and  what  is  useless  ?  Why  are  books  as 
books,  writers  as  writers,  readers  as  readers,  meritorious  and  hon- 
orable, apart  from  any  good  in  them,  or  anything  that  we  can 
get  from  them  ?  Why  do  we  pride  ourselves  on  our  powers  of 
absorbing  print,  as  our  grandfathers  did  on  their  gifts  in  imbib- 
ing port,  when  we  know  that  there  is  a  mode  of  absorbing  print 
which  makes  it  impossible  we  can  ever  learn  anything  good  out 
of  books  ? 

Our  stately  Milton  said  in  a  passage  which  is  one  of  the 
watchwords  of  the  English  race,  ^*  As  good  almost  kill  a  Man  as 
kill  a  good  Book.*  But  has  he  not  also  said  that  he  would 
*have  a  vigilant  eye  how  Bookes  demeane  themselves  as  well  as 


FREDERIC   HARRISON  2083 

men,  and  do  sharpest  justice  on  them  as  malefactors "  ?  .  .  . 
Yes!  they  do  kill  the  good  book  who  deliver  up  their  few  and 
precious  hours  of  reading  to  the  trivial  book;  they  make  it  dead 
for  them;  they  do  what  lies  in  them  to  destroy  ^Hhe  precious 
lifeblood  of  a  master  spirit,  embalm'd  and  treasured  up  on  pur- 
pose to  a  life  beyond  life  *' ;  they  "  spill  that  season'd  life  of  man 
preserv'd  and  stor'd  up  in  Bookes. '^  For  in  the  wilderness  of 
books  most  men,  certainly  all  busy  men,  must  strictly  choose.  If 
they  saturate  their  minds  with  the  idler  books,  the  "good  book,*^ 
which  Milton  calls  "an  immortality  rather  than  a  life,*Ms  dead 
to  them:    it  is  a  book  sealed  up  and  buried. 

It  is  most  right  that  in  the  great  republic  of  letters  there 
should  be  a  freedom  of  intercourse  and  a  spirit  of  equality. 
Every  reader  who  holds  a  book  in  his  hand  is  free  of  the  inmost 
minds  of  men  past  and  present;  their  lives  both  within  and 
without  the  pale  of  their  uttered  thoughts  are  unveiled  to  him; 
he  needs  no  introduction  to  the  greatest;  he  stands  on  no  cere- 
mony with  them ;  he  may,  if  he  be  so  minded,  scribble  "  dog- 
gerel*^ on  his  Shelley,  or  he  may  kick  Lord  Byron,  if  he  please, 
into  a  corner.  He  hears  Burke  perorate,  and  Johnson  dogmatize, 
and  Scott  tell  his  border  tales,  and  Wordsworth  muse  on  the  hill- 
side, without  the  leave  of  any  man,  or  the  payment  of  any  toll. 
In  the  republic  of  letters  there  are  no  privileged  orders  or 
places  reserved.  Every  man  who  has  written  a  book,  even  the 
diligent  Mr.  Whitaker,  is  in  one  sense  an  author;  "a  book's  a 
book  although  there's  nothing  in't  '* ;  and  every  man  who  can  de- 
cipher a  penny  journal  is,  in  one  sense,  a  reader.  And  your 
"general  reader,**  like  the  gravedigger  in  "  Hamlet,'*  is  hail-fellow 
with  all  the  mighty  dead;  he  pats  the  skull  of  the  jester;  bat- 
ters the  cheek  of  lord,  lady,  or  courtier;  and  uses  "imperious 
Caesar**  to  teach  boys  the  Latin  declensions. 

But  this  noble  equality  of  all  writers  —  of  all  writers  and  of  all 
readers  —  has  a  perilous  side  to  it.  It  is  apt  to  make  us  indis- 
criminate in  the  books  we  read,  and  somewhat  contemptuous  of 
the  mighty  men  of  the  past.  Men  who  are  most  observant  as  to 
the  friends  they  make,  or  the  conversation  they  join  in,  are  care- 
lessness itself  as  to  the  books  to  whom  they  intrust  themselves 
and  the  printed  language  with  which  they  saturate  their  minds 
Yet  can  any  friendship  or  society  be  more  important  to  us  than 
that  of  the  books  which  form  so  large  a  part  of  our  minds  and 
even    of   our   characters  ?     Do  we    in    real    life    take    any  pleasant 


2084  FREDERIC   HARRISON 

fellow  to  our  homes  and  chat  with  some  agreeable  rascal  by  our 
firesides,  we  who  will  take  up  any  pleasant  fellow's  printed  mem- 
oirs, we  who  delight  in  the  agreeable  rascal  when  he  is  cut  up 
into  pages  and  bound  in  calf  ? 

I  have  no  intention  to  moralize  or  to  indulge  in  a  homily  against 

the    reading  of  what  is  deliberately  evil.     There   is  not   so  much 

need  for  this  now,  and   I  am   not   discoursing  on   the  whole  duty 

of    man.     I  take  that   part  of   our  reading  which   is  by  itself   no 

doubt  harmless,  entertaining,  and  even  gently  instructive.     But  of 

this  enormous  mass  of  literature,  how  much  deserves  to  be  chosen 

out,  to  be  preferred  to  all  the  great  books  of  the  world,  to  be  set 

apart  for  those  precious  hours  which  are  all   that  the  most  of  us 

can  give  to  solid  reading  ?     The  vast  proportion  of  books  are  books 

that   we    shall    never   be    able    to    read.     A   serious   percentage  of 

books  are   not  worth    reading  at   all.     The  really  vital   books  for 

us  we  also  know  to  be  a  very  trifling  portion  of  the  whole.   And 

yet  we  act  as  if    every  book  were  as  good    as  any  other,  as  if   it 

were  merely  a  question  of  order  which  we  take  up  first,  as  if  any 

book  were  good  enough  for  us,  and  as  if  all  were  alike  honorable, 

precious,  and  satisfying.     Alas!    books  cannot   be  more   than    the 

men  who  write  them,  and  as  a  large  proportion  of  the  human  race 

now  write  books,  with    motives  and    objects  as  various  as  human 

activity,  books  as  books  are  entitled  a  priori,  until   their  value  is 

proved,  to  the  same  attention  and  respect  as  houses,  steam  engines, 

pictures,   fiddles,   bonnets,   and    other    thoughtful    or    ornamental 

products    of   human   industry.      In    the    shelves  of    those    libraries 

which  are  our  pride,— libraries  public  or  private,  circulating  or  very 

stationary, —  are  to  be  found  those  great  books  of  the  world  rari 

nantes  in  giirgite  vasto,  those  books  which  are  truly  « the  precious 

lifeblood  of  a  master  spirit. »    But  the  very  familiarity  which  their 

mighty  fame  has  bred  in  us  makes  us  indifferent;  we  grow  weary 

of  what  every  one  is  supposed   to   have  read,  and  we  take    down 

something  which   looks  a  little   eccentric,  or  some    author  on   the 

mere  ground  that  we  never  heard  of  him.  before. 

Thus  the  difficulties  of  literature  are  in  their  way  as  great  as 
those  of  the  world,  the  obstacles  to  finding  the  right  friends  are 
as  great,  the  peril  is  as  great  of  being  lost  in  a  babel  of  voices 
and  an  everchanging  mass  of  beings.  Books  are  not  wiser  than 
men,  the  true  books  are  not  easier  to  find  than  the  true  men,  the 
bad  books  or  the  vulgar  books  are  not  less  obtrusive  and  not  less 
ubiquitous  than  the   bad  or  vulgar  everywhere;    the  art  of   right 


FREDERIC   HARRISON  2085 

reading-  is  as  long  and  difficult  to  learn  as  the  art  of  right  living. 
Those  who  are  on  good  terms  with  the  first  author  they  meet  run 
as  much  risk  as  men  who  surrender  their  time  to  the  first  passer 
in  the  street,  for  to  be  open  to  every  book  is  for  the  most  part 
to  gain  as  little  as  possible  from  any.  A  man  aimlessly  wander- 
ing about  in  a  crowded  city  is  of  all  men  the  most  lonely;  so  he 
who  takes  up  only  the  books  that  he  ^^  comes  across, '^  is  pretty 
certain  to  meet  but  few  that  are  worth  knowing. 

Now  this  danger  is  one  to  which  we  are  specially  exposed  in 
this  age.  Our  high-pressure  life  of  emergencies,  our  whirling  in- 
dustrial organization  or  disorganization,  have  brought  us  in  this 
(as  in  most  things)  their  peculiar  difficulties  and  drawbacks.  In 
almost  everything  vast  opportunities  and  gigantic  means  of  mul- 
tiplying our  products  bring  with  them  new  perils  and  troubles 
which  are  often  at  first  neglected.  Our  huge  cities,  where  wealth 
is  piled  up  and  the  requirements  and  appliances  of  life  extended 
beyond  the  dreams  of  our  forefathers,  seem  to  breed  in  them- 
selves new  forms  of  squalor,  disease,  blights,  or  risks  to  life,  such 
as  we  are  yet  unable  to  cope  with.  So  the  enormous  multiplicity 
of  modern  books  is  not  altogether  favorable  to  the  knowing  of 
the  best.  I  listen  with  mixed  satisfaction  to  the  paeans  that 
they  chant  over  the  works  that  issue  from  the  press  each  day, 
how  the  books  poured  forth  from  Paternoster  Row  might  in  a 
few  years  be  built  into  a  pyramid  that  would  fill  the  dome  of 
St.  Paul's.  How  in  this  mountain  of  literature  am  I  to  find  the 
really  useful  book  ?  How,  when  I  have  found  it,  and  found  its 
value,  am  I  to  get  others  to  read  it  ?  How  am  I  to  keep  my 
head  clear  in  the  torrent  and  din  of  works,  all  of  which  distract 
my  attention,  most  of  which  promise  me  something,  whilst  so  few 
fulfill  that  promise  ?  The  Nile  is  the  source  of  the  Egyptian's 
bread,  and  without  it  he  perishes  of  hunger.  But  the  Nile  may 
be  rather  too  liberal  in  his  flood,  and  then  the  Egyptian  runs  im- 
minent risk  of  drowning. 

And  thus  there  never  was  a  time,  at  least  during  the  last  two 
hundred  years,  when  the  difficulties  in  the  way  of  making  an 
efficient  use  of  books  were  greater  than  they  are  to-day,  when 
the  obstacles  were  more  real  between  readers  and  the  right  books 
to  read,  when  it  was  practically  so  troublesome  to  find  out  that 
which  it  is  of  vital  importance  to  know;  and  that  not  by  the  dearth, 
but  by  the  plethora  of  printed  matter.  For  it  comes  to  nearly  the 
same  thing  whether  we  are  actually  debarred  by  physical  imjio.ssi- 


2o86  FREDERIC  HARRISON 

bility  from  getting  the  right  book  into  our  hand,  or  whether  we 
are  choked  off  from  the  right  book  by  the  obtrusive  crowd  of  the 
wrong  books;  so  that  it  needs  a  strong  character  and  a  resolute 
system  of  reading  to  keep  the  head  cool  in  the  storm  of  litera- 
ture around  us.  We  read  nowadays  in  the  market  place  —  I  would 
rather  say  in  some  large  steam  factory  of  letterpress,  where  damp 
sheets  of  new  print  whirl  round  us  perpetually  —  if  it  be  not 
rather  some  noisy  book  fair  where  literary  showmen  tempt  us 
with  performing  dolls,  and  the  gongs  of  rival  booths  are  stunning 
our  ears  from  morn  till  night.  Contrast  with  this  pandemonium 
of  Leipsic  and  Paternoster  Row  the  sublime  picture  of  our  Mil- 
ton in  his  early  retirement  at  Horton,  when,  musing  over  his 
coming  flight  to  the  epic  heaven,  practicing  his  pinions,  as  he  tells 
Diodati,  he  consumed  five  years  of  solitude  in  reading  over  the 
whole  of  the  ancient  writers :  — 

^*-  Et  totum  rapiunt,  me,  mea  vita,  libri?'* 

Who  now  reads  the  whole  of  the  ancient  writers  ?  Who  sys- 
tematically reads  the  great  writers,  be  they  ancient  or  modem, 
whom  the  consent  of  ages  has  marked  out  as  classics;  typical, 
immortal,  peculiar  teachers  of  our  race  ?  Alas !  the  "  Paradise 
Lost  **  is  lost  again  to  us  beneath  an  inundation  of  graceful  aca- 
demic verse,  sugary  stanzas  of  ladylike  prettiness,  and  ceaseless 
explanations  in  more  or  less  readable  prose  of  what  John  Milton 
meant  or  did  not  mean,  or  what  he  saw  or  did  not  see,  or  why 
Adam  or  Satan  is  like  that,  or  unlike  the  other.  We  read  a  per- 
fect library  about  the  ^'  Paradise  Lost,  *^  but  the  **  Paradise  Lost " 
itself  we  do  not  read. 

I  am  not  presumptuous  enough  to  assert  that  the  larger  part 
of  modern  literature  is  not  worth  reading  in  itself,  that  the  prose 
is  not  readable,  entertaining,  one  may  say  highly  instructive. 
Nor  do  I  pretend  that  the  verses  which  we  read  so  zealously  in 
place  of  Milton's  are  not  good  verses.  On  the  contrary,  I  think 
them  sweetly  conceived,  as  musical  and  as  graceful  as  the  verse  of 
any  age  in  our  history.  I  say  it  emphatically,  a  great  deal  of 
our  modem  literature  is  such  that  it  is  exceedingly  difficult  to 
resist  it,  and  it  is  undeniable  that  it  gives  us  real  information. 
It  seems  perhaps  unreasonable  to  many,  to  assert  that  a  decent 
readable  book  which  gives  us  actual  instruction  can  be  otherwise 
than  a  useful  companion  and  a  solid  gain.  I  dare  say  many  peo- 
ple are  ready  to  cry  out  upon  me  as  an   obscurantist  for  ventur- 


FREDERIC    HARRISON  2087 

ino-  to  doubt  a  genial  confidence  in  all  literature  simply  as  such. 
But  the  question  which  weighs  upon  me  with  such  really  crush- 
ing urgency  is  this  :  What  are  the  books  that  in  our  little  rem- 
nant of  reading  time  it  is  most  vital  for  us  to  know  ?  For  the 
true  use  of  books  is  of  such  sacred  value  to  us  that  to  be  sim- 
ply entertained  is  to  cease  to  be  taught,  elevated,  inspired  by 
books;  merely  to  gather  information  of  a  chance  kind  is  to  close 
the  mind  to  knowledge  of  the  urgent   kind. 

Every  book  that  we  take  up  without  a  purpose  is  an  oppor- 
tunity lost  of  taking  up  a  book  with  a  purpose  —  every  bit  of 
stray  information  which  we  cram  into  our  heads  without  any 
sense  of  its  importance  is  for  the  most  part  a  bit  of  the  most 
useful  information  driven  out  of  our  heads  and  choked  off  from 
our  minds.  It  is  so  certain  that  information,  i.  c. ,  the  knowledge, 
the  stored  thoughts  and  observations  of  mankind,  is  now  grown 
to  proportions  so  utterly  incalculable  and  prodigious,  that  even  the 
learned  whose  lives  are  given  to  study  can  but  pick  up  some  crumbs 
that  fall  from  the  table  of  truth.  They  delve  and  tend  but  a  plot 
in  that  vast  and  teeming  kingdom,  whilst  those,  whom  active  life 
leaves  with  but  a  few  cramped  hours  of  study,  can  hardly  come  to 
know  the  very  vastness  of  the  field  before  them,  or  how  infini- 
tesimally  small  is  the  corner  they  can  traverse  at  the  best.  We 
know  all  is  not  of  equal  value.  We  know  that  books  differ  in 
value  as  much  as  diamonds  differ  from  the  sand  on  the  seashore, 
as  much  as  our  living  friend  differs  from  a  dead  rat.  We  know 
that  much  in  the  myriad-peopled  world  of  books  —  very  much  in 
all  kinds  —  is  trivial,  enervating,  inane,  even  noxious.  And  thus, 
where  we  have  infinite  opportunities  of  wasting  our  efforts  to  no 
end,  of  fatiguing  our  minds  without  enriching  them,  of  clogging 
the  spirit  without  satisfying  it,  there,  I  cannot  but  think,  the  very 
infinity  of  opportunities  is  robbing  us  of  the  actual  power  of 
using  them.  And  thus  I  come  often,  in  my  less  hopeful  moods, 
to  watch  the  remorseless  cataract  of  daily  literature  which  thun- 
ders over  the  remnants  of  the  past,  as  if  it  were  a  fresh  impedi- 
ment to  the  men  of  oiir  day  in  the  way  of  systematic  knowledge 
and  consistent  powers  of  thought:  as  if  it  were  destined  one  day 
to  overwhelm  the  great  inheritance  of  mankind  in  prose  and  verse. 

I  remember  when  I  was  a  very  young  man  at  college,  that  a 
youth,  in  no  spirit  of  paradox,  but  out  of  plenary  conviction,  un- 
dertook to  maintain  before  a  body  of  serious  students,  the  as- 
tounding proposition  that  the  invention  of  printing  had  been  one 


2o88  FREDERIC   HARRISON 

of  the  greatest  misfortunes  that  had  ever  befallen  mankind.  He 
argued  that  exclusive  reliance  on  printed  matter  had  destroyed 
the  higher  method  of  oral  teaching,  the  dissemination  of  thought 
by  the  spoken  w^ord  to  the  attentive  ear.  He  insisted  that  the 
formation  of  a  vast  literary  class  looking  to  the  making  of  books 
as  a  means  of  making  money,  rather  than  as  a  social  duty,  had 
multiplied  books  for  the  sake  of  the  writers  rather  than  for  the 
sake  of  the  readers;  that  the  reliance  on  books  as  a  cheap  and 
common  resource  had  done  much  to  weaken  the  powers  of  mem- 
ory; that  it  destroyed  the  craving  for  a  general  culture  of  taste, 
and  the  need  of  artistic  expression  in  all  the  surroundings  of  life. 
And  he  argued  lastly,  that  the  sudden  multiplication  of  all  kinds 
of  printed  matter  had  been  fatal  to  the  orderly  arrangement  of 
thought,  and  had  hindered  a  system  of  knowledge  and  a  scheme 
of  education. 

I  am  far  from  sharing  this  immature  view.  Of  course  I  hold 
the  invention  of  printing  to  have  been  one  of  the  most  momen- 
tous facts  in  the  whole  history  of  man.  Without  it  universal  so- 
cial progress,  true  democratic  enlightenment,  and  the  education  of 
the  people  would  have  been  impossible,  or  very  slow,  even  if  the 
cultured  few,  as  is  likely,  could  have  advanced  the  knowledge  of 
mankind  without  it.  We  place  Gutenberg  amongst  the  small 
list  of  the  unique  and  special  benefactors  of  mankind,  in  the  sa- 
cred choir  of  those  whose  work  transformed  the  conditions  of 
life,  whose  work,  once  done,  could  never  be  repeated.  And  no 
doubt  the  things  which  our  ardent  friend  regarded  as  so  fatal  a 
disturbance  of  society  were  all  inevitable  and  necessary,  part  of 
the  great  revolution  of  mind  through  which  men  grew  out  of 
the  mediaeval  incompleteness  to  a  richer  conception  of  life  and 
of  the   world. 

Yet  there  is  a  sense  in  which  this  boyish  anathema  against 
printing  may  be  true  to  us  by  our  own  fault.  We  may  create 
for  ourselves  these  very  evils.  For  this  T  hold  that  the  art  of 
printing  has  not  been  a  gift  wholly  unmixed  with  evils;  that  it 
must  be  used  wisely  if  it  is  to  be  a  boon  to  man  at  all;  that 
it  entails  on  us  heavy  responsibilities,  resolution  to  use  it  with 
judgment  and  self-control,  and  the  will  to  resist  its  temptations 
and  its  perils.  Indeed,  we  may  easily  so  act  that  we  may  make 
it  a  clog  on  the  progress  of  the  human  mind,  a  real  curse  and 
not  a  boon.  The  power  of  flying  at  will  through  space  would 
probably  extinguish   civilization    and    society,  for  it  would  release 


FRELrERIC   HARRISON  2089 

US  from  the  wholesome  bondage  of  localities.  The  power  of 
hearing  every  word  that  had  ever  been  uttered  on  this  planet 
would  annihilate  thought,  as  the  power  of  knowing  all  recorded 
facts  by  the  process  of  turning  a  handle  would  annihilate  true 
science.  Our  human  faculties  and  our  mental  forces  are  not  en- 
larged simply  by  multiplying  our  materials  of  knowledge  and 
our  facilities  for  communication.  Telephones,  microphones,  pan- 
toscopes,  steam  presses,  and  ubiquity  engines  in  general  may, 
after  all,  leave  the  poor  human  brain  panting  and  throbbing  un- 
der the  strain  of  its  appliances,  and  get  no  bigger  and  no  stronger 
than  the  brains  of  the  men  who  heard  Moses  *  speaTc,  and  saw 
Aristotle  and  Archimedes  pondering  over  a  few  worn  rolls  of 
crabbed  manuscript.  Until .  same  new  Newton  or  Watt  can  in- 
vent a  machine  for  magnifying  the  human  mind,  every  fresh  ap- 
paratus for  multiplying  its  work  is  a  fresh  strain  on  the  mind,  a 
new  realm  for  it  to  order  and  to  rule. 

And  so,  -I  say  it  most  confidently,  the  first  intellectual  task  of 
our  age  is  rightly  to  order  and  make  serviceable  the  vast  realm 
of  printed  material  which  four  centuries  have  swept  across  our 
path.  To  organize  our  knowledge,  to  systematize  our  reading,  to 
save,  out  of  the  relentless  cataract  of  ink,  the  immortal  thoughts 
of  the  greatest  —  this  is  a  necessity  unless  the  productive  ingenu- 
ity of  man  is  to  lead  us  at  last  to  a  measureless  and  pathless 
chaos.  To  know  anything  that  turns  up  is,  in  the  infinity  of 
knowledge,  to  know  nothing.  To  read  the  first  book  we  come 
across,  in  the  wilderness  of  books,  is  to  learn  nothing.  To  turn 
over  the  pages  of  ten  thousand  volumes  is  to  be  practically  in- 
different to  all  that  is  good. 

But  this  warns  me  that  I  am  entering  on  a  subject  which  is 
far  too  big  and  solemn  for  us  to  touch  now.  I  have  no  pre- 
tension to  deal  with  it  as  it  needs.  It  is  plain,  I  think,  that  to 
organize  our  knowledge,  even  to  systematize  our  reading,  to  make 
a  working  .selection  of  books  for  general  study,  really  implies  a 
complete  scheme  of  education.  A  scheme  of  education  ultimately 
implies  a  system  of  philosophy,  a  view  of  man's  duty  and  powers 
as  a  moral  and  social  being  —  a  religion,  in  fact.  Before  a  prob- 
lem so  great  as  this,  on  which  a  general  audience  has  such  dif- 
ferent ideas  and  wants,  and  differs  so  profoundly  on  the  very 
premises  from  which  we  start, —  before  such  a  problem  as  a  gen- 
eral theory  of  education,  I  prefer  to  retire.  I  will  keep  silence 
even  from  good  words.      I  have  chosen  my  own  part,  and  adopted 


2090  FREDERIC   HARRISON 

my  own  teacher.  But  to  ask  men  to  adopt  the  education  of 
Auguste  Comte  is  almost  to  ask  them   to  adopt   Positivism  itself. 

Nor  will  I  enlarge  on  the  matter  for  thought,  for  foreboding, 
almost  for  despair,  that  is  presented  to  us  by  the  fact  of  our 
familiar  literary  ways  and  our  recognized  literary  profession. 
That  things  infinitely  trifling  in  themselves;  men,  events,  socie- 
ties, phenomena,  in  no  way  otherwise  more  valuable  than  the 
myriad  other  things  which  flit  around  us  like  the  sparrows  on 
the  housetop,  should  be  glorified,  magnified,  and  perpetuated,  set 
under  a  literary  microscope  and  focused  in  the  blaze  of  a  liter- 
ary magic  lantern  —  not  for  v/hat  they  are  in  themselves,  but 
solely  to  amuse  and  excite  the  world  by  showing  how  it  can  be 
done  —  all  this  is  to  me  so  amazing,  so  heart-breaking,  that  I  for- 
bear now  to  treat  it,  as  I  cannot  say  all  that  I  would. 

I  pass  from  all  systems  of  education  —  from  thought  of  social 
duty,  from  meditation  on  the  profession  of  letters  —  to  more  gen- 
eral and  lighter  topics.  I  will  deal  now  only  with  the  easier 
side  of  reading,  with  matter  on  which  there  is  some  common 
agreement  in  the  world.  I  am  very  far  from  meaning  that  our 
whole  time  spent  with  books  is  to  be  given  to  study.  Far  from 
it.  I  put  the  poetic  and  emotional  side  of  literature  as  the  most 
needed  for  daily  use.  I  take  the  books  that  seek  to  rouse  the 
imagination,  to  stir  up  feeling,  touch  the  heart;  the  books  of  art, 
of  fancy,  of  ideals,  such  as  reflect  the  delight  and  aroma  of  life. 
And  here  how  does  the  trivial,  provided  it  is  the  new,  that  which 
stares  at  us  in  the  advertising  columns  of  the  day,  crowd  out 
the  immortal  poetry  and  pathos  of  the  human  race,  vitiating  our 
taste  for  those  exquisite  pieces  which  are  a  household  word,  and 
weakening  our  mental  relish  for  the  eternal  works  of  genius! 
Old  Homer  is  the  very  fountain  head  of  pure  poetic  enjoyment, 
of  all  that  is  spontaneous,  simple,  native,  and  dignified  in  life. 
He  takes  us  into  the  ambrosial  world  of  heroes,  of  human  vigor, 
of  purity,  of  grace.  Now  Homer  is  one  of  the  few  poets  the  life 
of  whom  can  be  fairly  preserved  in  a  translation.  Most  men  and 
women  can  say  that  they  have  read  Homer,  just  as  most  of  us 
can  say  that  we  have  studied  Johnson's  Dictionary.  But  how 
few  of  us  take  him  up,  time  after  time,  with  fresh  delight!  How 
few  have  even  read  the  entire  "  Iliad  ^^  and  ^^  Odyssey  "  through ! 
Whether  in  the  resounding  lines  of  the  old  Greek,  as  fresh  and 
ever-stirring  as  the  waves  that  tumble  on  the  seashore,  filling 
the    soul    with    satisfying    silent   wonder   at    its   restless    unison; 


FREDERIC   HARRISON  2091 

whether  in  the  quaint  lines  of  Chapman,  or  the  clarion  couplets 
of  Pope,  or  the  closer  versions  of  Cowper,  Lord  Derby,  of  Philip 
Worsley,  or  even  in  the  new  prose  version  of  the  **  Odyssey,  * 
Homer  is  always  fresh  and  rich.  And  yet  how  seldom  does  one 
find  a  friend  spellbound  over  the  Greek  Bible  of  antiquity,  whilst 
they  wade  through  torrents  of  magazine  quotations  from  a  petty 
versifier  of  to-day,  and  in  an  idle  vacation  will  graze,  as  content- 
edly as  cattle  in  a  fresh  meadow,  through  the  chopped  straw  of 
a  circulating  library.  A  generation  which  will  listen  to  *^  Pina- 
fore" for  three  hundred  nights,  and  will  read  M.  Zola's  seven- 
teenth romance,  can  no  more  read  Homer  than  it  could  read  a 
cuneiform  inscription.  It  will  read  about  Homer  just  as  it  will 
read  about  a  cuneiform  inscription,  and  will  crowd  to  see  a  few 
pots  which  probably  came  from  the  neighborhood  of  Troy.  But 
to  Homer  and  the  primeval  type  of  heroic  man  in  his  beauty, 
and  his  simpleness,  and  joyousness,  the  culturd  generation  is 
really  dead,  as  completely  as  some  spoiled  beauty  of  the  ball- 
room is  dead  to  the  bloom  of  the  heather  or  the  waving  of  the 
daffodils  in  a  glade. 

It  is  a  true  psychological  problem,  this  nausea  which  idle  cul- 
ture seems  to  produce  for  all  that  is  manly  and  pure  in  heroic 
poetry.  One  knows  —  at  least  every  schoolboy  has  known  —  that 
a  passage  of  Homer,  rolling  along  in  the  hexameter  or  trumped 
out  by  Pope,  will  give  one  a  hot  glow  of  pleasure  and  raise  a 
finer  throb  in  the  pulse;  one  knows  that  Homer  is  the  easiest, 
most  artless,  most  diverting  of  all  poets;  that  the  fiftieth  reading 
rouses  the  spirit  even  more  than  the  first  —  and  yet  we  find  our- 
selves (we  are  all  alike)  painfully  pshaw-ing  over  some  new  and 
uncut  barley  sugar  in  rhyme,  which  a  man  in  the  street  asked  us 
if  we  had  read,  or  it  may  be  some  learned  lucubration  about  the 
site  of  Troy  by  some  one  we  chanced  to  meet  at  dinner.  It  is 
an  unwritten  chapter  in  the  history  of  the  human  mind,  how 
this  literary  prurience  after  new  print  unmans  us  for  the  enjoy- 
ment of  the  old  songs  chanted  forth  in  the  sunrise  of  human 
imagination.  To  ask  a  man  or  woman  who  spends  half  a  life- 
time in  sucking  magazines  and  new  poems  to  read  a  book  of 
Homer  would  be  like  asking  a  butcher's  boy  to  whistle  "Ade- 
laida."  The  noises  and  sights  and  talk,  the  whirl  and  volatility 
of  life  around  us,  are  too  strong  for  us.  A  society  which  is  for- 
ever gossiping  in  a  sort  of  perpetual  "  drum "  loses  the  very 
I'aculty  of   caring    for    anything    but  '■  early    copies "  and    the    last 


2092  FREDERIC   HARRISON 

tale  out.  Thus,  like  the  tares  in  the  noble  parable  of  the  Sower, 
a  perpetual  chatter  about  books  chokes  the  seed  which  is  sown 
in  the  greatest  books  in  the  world. 

I  speak  of  Homer,  but  fifty  other  great  poets  and  creators  of 
eternal  beauty  would  serve  my  argument  as  well.  Take  the  lat- 
est perhaps  in  the  series  of  the  world-wide  and  immortal  poets 
of  the  whole  human  race  —  Walter  Scott.  We  all  read  Scott's 
romances,  as  we  have  all  read  Hume's  ^<  History  of  England, '>  but 
how  often  do  we  read  them,  how  zealously,  with  what  sympathy 
and  understanding  ?  I  am  told  that  the  last  discovery  of  modem 
culture  is  that  Scott's  prose  is  commonplace;  that  the  young  men 
at  our  universities  are  far  too  critical  to  care  for  his  artless  sen- 
tences and  flowing  descriptions.  They  prefer  Mr.  Swinburne, 
Mr.  Mallock,  and  the  euphuism  of  young  Oxford,  just  as  some 
people  prefer  a  Dresden  shepherdess  to  the  Caryatides  of  the 
Erechtheum,  pronounce  Fielding  to  be  low,  and  Mozart  to  be 
passd.  As  boys  love  lollipops,  so  these  juvenile  fops  love  to  roll 
phrases  about  under  the  tongue,  as  if  phrases  in  themselves  had 
a  value  apart  from  thoughts,  feelings,  great  conceptions,  or  hu- 
man sympathy.  For  Scott  is  just  one  of  the  poets  (we  may  call 
poets  all  the  great  creators  in  prose  or  in  verse)  of  whom  one 
never  wearies,  just  as  one  can  listen  to  Beethoven  or  watch  the 
sunrise  or  the  sunset  day  by  day  with  new  delight.  I  think  I 
can  read  the  ^^  Antiquary,  *'  or  the  "Bride  of  Lammermoor," 
*Ivanhoe,"  "  Quentin  Durward,'^  and  "Old  Mortality,''  at  least 
once  a  year  afresh.  Now  Scott  is  a  perfect  library  in  himself. 
A  constant  reader  of  romances  would  find  that  it  needed  months 
to  go  through  even  the  best  pieces  of  the  inexhaustible  painter 
of  eight  full  centuries  and  every  type  of  man,  and  he  might  re- 
peat the  process  of  reading  him  ten  times  in  a  lifetime  without 
a  sense  of  fatigue  or  sameness.  The  poetic  beauty  of  Scott's 
creations  is  almost  the  least  of  his  great  qualities.  It  is  the  uni- 
versality of  his  sympathy  that  is  so  truly  great,  the  justice  of  his 
estimates,  the  insight  into  the  spirit  of  each  age,  his  intense  ab- 
sorption of  self  in  the  vast  epic  of  human  civilization.  What  are 
the  old  almanacs  that  they  so  often  give  us  as  histories  beside 
these  living  pictures  of  the  ordered  succession  of  ages  ?  As  in 
Homer  himself,  we  see  in  this  prose  "  Iliad ''  of  modern  history  the 
battle  of  the  old  and  the  new,  the  heroic  defense  of  ancient 
strongholds,  the  long  impending  and  inevitable  doom  of  mediaeval 
life.     Strong  men  and  proud  women  struggle  against  the  destirrr 


FREDERIC   HARRISON  2093 

of  modern  society,  unconsciously  working  out  its  ways,  undaunt- 
edly defying  its  power.  How  just  is  our  island  Homer!  Neither 
Greek  nor  Trojan  sways  him;  Achilles  is  his  hero;  Hector  is  his 
favorite;  he  loves  the  councils  of  chiefs  and  the  palace  of  Priam; 
but  the  swineherd,  the  charioteer,  the  slave  girl,  the  hound,  the 
beggar,  and  the  herdsman,  all  glow  alike  in  the  harmonious 
coloring  of  his  peopled  epic.  We  see  the  dawn  of  our  English 
nation,  the  defense  of  Christendom  against  the  Koran,  the  grace 
and  the  terror  of  feudalism,  the  rise  of  monarchy  out  of  baron- 
ies, the  rise  of  parliaments  out  of  monarchy,  the  rise  of  industry 
out  of  serfage,  the  pathetic  ruin  of  chivalry,  the  splendid  death 
struggle  of  Catholicism,  the  sylvan  tribes  of  the  mountain  (rem- 
nants of  our  prehistoric  forefathers)  beating  themselves  to  pieces 
against  the  hard  advance  of  modern  industry;  we  see  the  grim 
heroism  of  the  Bible  martyrs,  the  catastrophe  of  feudalism  over- 
whelmed by  a  practical  age  which  knew  little  of  its  graces  and 
almost  nothing  of  its  virtues.  Such  is  Scott,  who,  we  may  say, 
has  done  for  the  various  phases  of  modern  history  what  Shakes^ 
peare  has  done  for  the  manifold  types  of  human  character.  And 
this  glorious  and  most  human  and  most  historical  of  poets,  with- 
out whom  our  very  conception  of  human  development  would 
have  ever  been  imperfect,  this  manliest  and  truest  and  widest  of 
romancers  we  neglect  for  some  hothouse  hybrid  of  psychological 
analysis,  for  the  wretched  imitators  of  Balzac  and  the  jacka- 
napes phrasemongering  of  some  Osric  of  the  day,  who  assures  us 
that  Scott  is  an  absolute  Philistine. 

In  speaking  with  enthusiasm  of  Scott,  as  of  Homer,  or  of 
Shakespeare,  or  of  Milton,  or  of  any  of  the  accepted  masters  of 
the  world,  I  have  no  wish  to  insist  dogmatically  upon  any  single 
name,  or  two  or  three  in  particular.  Our  enjoyment  and  rever- 
ence of  the  great  poets  of  the  world  is  seriously  injured  nowa- 
days by  the  habit  we  get  of  singling  out  some  particular  quality, 
some  particular  school  of  art  for  intemperate  praise  or,  still  worse, 
for  intemperate  abuse.  Mr.  Ruskin,  I  suppose,  is  answerable  for 
the  taste  for  this  one-sided  and  spasmodic  criticism;  and  every 
young  gentleman  who  has  the  trick  of  a  few  adjectives  will 
languidly  vow  that  Marlowe  is  supreme,  or  Murillo  foul.  It  is 
the  mark  of  rational  criticism  as  well  as  of  healthy  thought  to 
maintain  an  evenness  of  mind  in  judging  of  great  works,  to  rec- 
ognize great  qualities  in  due  proportion,  to  feel  that  defects  are 
made  up  by  beauties,  and  beauties  are   often   balanced   by   weak- 


2094  FREDERIC   HARRISON 

ness.  The  true  judgment  implies  a  weighing  of  each  work  and 
each  workman  as  a  whole,  in  relation  to  the  sum  of  human  cul- 
tivation and  the  gradual  advance  of  the  movement  of  ages.  And 
in  this  matter  we  shall  usually  find  that  the  world  is  right,  the 
world  of  the  modern  centuries  and  the  nations  of  Europe  to- 
gether. It  is  unlikely,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  that  a  young  person 
who  has  hardly  ceased  making  Latin  verses  will  be  able  to  re- 
verse the  decisions  of  the  civilized  world;  and  it  is  even  more 
unlikely  that  Milton  and  Moliere,  Fielding  and  Scott,  will  ever 
be  displaced  by  a  poet  who  has  unaccountably  lain  hid  for  one 
or  two  centuries.  I  know  that  in  the  style  of  to-day  I  ought 
hardly  to  venture  to  address  you  about  poetry  unless  I  am  pre- 
pared to  unfold  to  you  the  mysterious  beauties  of  some  unknown 
genius  who  has  recently  been  unearthed  by  the  Children  of  Light 
and  Sweetness.  I  confess  I  have  no  such  discovery  to  announce. 
I  prefer  to  dwell  in  Gath  and  to  pitch  my  tents  in  Ashdod;  and 
I  doubt  the  use  of  the  sling  as  a  weapon  in  modern  war.  I  de- 
cline to  go  into  hyperbolic  eccentricities  over  unknown  geniuses, 
and  a  single  quality  or  power  is  not  enough  to  arouse  my  en- 
thusiasm. It  is  possible  that  no  master  ever  painted  a  buttercup 
like  this  one,  or  the  fringe  of  a  robe  like  that  one;  that  this  poet 
has  a  unique  subtlety,  and  that  an  undefinable  music.  I  am  still 
unconvinced,  though  the  man  who  cannot  see  it,  we  are  told, 
should  at  once  retire  to  the  place  where  there  is  wailing  and 
gnashing  of  teeth. 

I  am  against  all  gnashing  of  teeth,  whether  for  or  against  a 
particular  idol.  I  stand  by  the  men,  and  by  all  the  men,  who 
have  moved  mankind  to  the  depths  of  their  souls,  who  have  taught 
generations,  and  formed  our  life.  If  I  say  of  Scott,  that  to  have 
drunk  in  the  whole  of  his  glorious  spirit  is  a  liberal  education  in 
itself,  I  am  asking  for  no  exclusive  devotion  to  Scott,  to  any 
poet,  or  any  school  of  poets,  or  any  age,  or  any  country,  to  any 
style  or  any  order  of  poet,  one  more  than  another.  They  are  as 
various,  fortunately,  and  as  many-sided  as  human  nature  itself. 
If  I  delight  in  Scott,  I  love  Fielding,  and  Richardson,  and  Sterne, 
and  Goldsmith,  and  Defoe.  Yes,  and  I  will  add  Cooper  and  Mar- 
ryat.  Miss  Edge  worth  and  Miss  Austen  —  to  confine  myself  to 
those  who  are  already  classics,  to  our  own  country,  and  to  one 
form  of  art  alone,  and  not  to  venture  on  the  ground  of  contem- 
porary romance  in  general.  What  I  have  said  of  Homer,  I  would 
say  in  a  degree,  but  somewhat  lower,  of  those  great  Ancients  who 


FREDERIC   HARRISON  2095 

are  the  most  accessible  to  us  in  English  —  ^schylus,  Aristophanes, 
Virgil,  and  Horace.  What  I  have  said  of  Shakespeare  I  would 
say  of  Calderon,  of  Moliere,  of  Corneille,  of  Racine,  of  Voltaire, 
of  Alfieri,  of  Goethe,  of  those  dramatists,  in  many  forms,  and  with 
o-enius  the  most  diverse,  who  have  so  steadily  set  themselves  to 
idealize  the  great  types  of  public  life  and  of  the  phases  of  human 
history.  Let  us  all  beware  lest  worship  of  the  idiosyncrasy  of 
our  peerless  Shakespeare  blind  us  to  the  value  of  the  great  mas- 
ters who  in  a  ditferent  world  and  with  different  aims  have  pre- 
sented the  development  of  civilization  in  a  series  of  dramas, 
where  the  unity  of  a  few  great  types  of  man  and  of  society  is 
made  paramount  to  subtlety  of  character  or  brilliancy  of  language. 
What  I  have  said  of  Milton,  I  would  say  of  Dante,  of  Ariosto,  of 
Petrarch,  and  of  Tasso;  nor  less  would  I  say  it  of  Boccaccio  and 
Chaucer,  of  Camoens  and  Spenser,  of  Rabelais  and  of  Cervantes, 
of  Gil  Bias  and  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  of  Byron  and  of  Shelley, 
of  Goethe  and  of  Schiller.  Nor  let  us  forget  those  wonderful 
idealizations  of  awakening  thought  and  primitive  societies,  the 
pictures  o?  other  races  and  types  of  life  removed  from  our  own: 
all  those  primeval  legends,  ballads,  songs,  and  tales,  those  prov- 
erbs, apologues,  and  maxims,  which  have  come  down  to  us  from 
distant  ages  of  man's  history  —  the  old  idyls  and  myths  of  the 
Hebrew  race;  the  tales  of  Greece,  of  the  Middle  Ages  of  the 
East;  the  fables  of  the  Old  and  the  New  World;  the  songs  of  the 
Nibelungs ;  the  romances  of  early  feudalism ;  the  "  Morte  d'Arthur  ** ; 
the  "  Arabian  Nights  ^^ ;  the  ballads  of  the  early  nations  of  Eu- 
rope. 

I  protest  that  I  am  devoted  to  no  school  in  particular:  I  con- 
demn no  school;  I  reject  none.  I  am  for  the  school  of  all  the 
great  men;  and  I  am  against  the  school  of  the  smaller  men.  I 
care  for  Wordsworth  as  well  as  for  Byron,  for  Burns  as  well  as 
Shelley,  for  Boccaccio  as  well  as  for  Milton,  for  Bunyan  as  well 
as  Rabelais,  for  Cervantes  as  much  as  for  Dante,  for  Corneille  as 
well  as  for  Shakespeare,  for  Goldsmith  as  well  as  Goethe.  I 
stand  by  the  sentence  of  the  world;  and  I  hold  that  in  a  matter 
so  human  and  so  broad  as  the  highest  poetry  the  judgment  of 
the  nations  of  Europe  is  pretty  well  settled,  at  any  rate,  after  a 
century  or  two  of  continuous  reading  and  discussing.  Let  those 
who  will  assure  us  that  no  one  can  pretend  to  culture  unless  he 
swear  by  Fra  Angelico  and  Sandro  Botticelli,  by  Arnolpho  the  son 
of  Lapo,   or  the   Lombardic  bricklayers,    by   Martini   and   Galuppi 


2096-  FREDERIC   HARRISON 

(all,  by  the  way,  admirable  men  of  the  second  rank) ;  and  so, 
•in  literature  and  poetry,  there  are  some  who  will  hear  of  noth- 
ing but  Webster  or  Marlowe;  Blake,  Herrick  or  Keats;  William 
Langland  or  the  Earl  of  Surrey;  Heine  or  Omar  Khayyam.  All 
of  these  are  men  of  genius,  and  each  with  a  special  and  inimita- 
ble gift  of  his  own.  But  the  busy  world,  which  does  not  hunt 
poets  as  collectors  hunt  for  curios,  may  fairly  reserve  these  lesser 
lights  for  the  time  when  they  know  the  greatest  well. 

So,  I  say,  think  mainly  of  the  greatest,  of  the  best  known, 
of  those  who  cover  the  largest  area  of  human  history  and  man's 
common  nature.  Now  when  we  come  to  count  up  these  names 
accepted  by  the  unanimous  voice  of  Europe,  we  have  some  thirty 
or  forty  names,  and  amongst  them  are  some  of  the  most  volumi- 
nous of  writers.  I  have  been  running  over  but  one  department 
of  literature  alone,  the  poetic.  I  have  been  naming  those  only, 
whose  names  are  household  words  with  us,  and  the  poets  for  the 
most  part  of  modern  Europe.  Yet  even  here  we  have  a  list 
which  is  usually  found  in  not  less  than  a  hundred  volumes  at 
least.  Now  poetry  and  the  highest  kind  of  romance  are  exactly 
that  order  of  literature,  which  not  only  will  bear  to  be  read  many 
times,  but  that  of  which  the  true  value  can  only  be  gained  by 
frequent,  and  indeed  habitual  reading.  A  man  can  hardly  be 
said  to  know  the  twelfth  Mass  or  the  ninth  Symphony,  by  virtue 
of  having  once  heard  them  played  ten  years  ago;  he  can  hardly 
be  said  to  take  air  and  exercise  because  he  took  a  country  walk 
once  last  autumn.  And  so  he  can  hardly  be  said  to  know  Scott, 
or  Shakespeare,  Moli^re,  or  Cervantes,  when  he  once  read  them 
since  the  close  of  his  school  days,  or  amidst  the  daily  grind  of 
his  professional  life.  The  immortal  and  universal  poets  of  our 
race  are  to  be  read  and  re-read  till  their  music  and  their  spirit 
are  a  part  of  our  nature;  they  are  to  be  thought  over  and  di- 
gested till  we  live  in  the  world  they  created  for  us;  they  are  to 
be  read  devoutly,  as  devout  men  read  their  Bibles  and  fortify  their 
hearts  with  psalms.  For  as  the  old  Hebrew  singer  heard  the 
heavens  declare  the  glory  of  their  Maker,  and  the  firmament  show- 
ing his  handiwork,  so  in  the  long  roll  of  poetry  we  see  transfig- 
ured the  strength  and  beauty  of  humanity,  the  joys  and  sorrows, 
the  dignity  and  struggles,  the  long  life-history  of  our  common 
kind. 

I  have  said  but  little  of  the  more  difficult  poetry,  and  the  re- 
ligious meditations  of  the  great  idealists  in  prose  and  verse,  whom 


FREDERIC   HARRISON  a097 

It  needs  a  concentrated  study  to  master.  Some  of  these  are  hard 
to  all  men,  and  at  all  seasons.  The  «  Divine  Comedy, '>  in  its  way, 
reaches  as  deep  in  its  though tfulnesa  as  Descartes  himself.  But 
these  books,  if  they  are  dihicult  io  all,  are  impossible  to  the  glut- 
tons of  the  circulating  library.  Vo  these  munchers  of  vapid  mem- 
oirs and  monotonous  teles,  3Uv,h  books  arc  closed  indeed.  The 
power  of  enjoyment  and  of  understanding  is  withered  up  within 
them.  To  the  besotted  gambler  on  the  turf  the  lonely  hillside 
glowing  with  heather  grows  to  be  as  dreary  as  a  prison;  and  so, 
too,  a  man  may  listen  nightly  to  burlesque.:,  till  ^^  Fideho  >>  inflicts 
on  him  intolerable  fatigue.  One  may  be  a  devourer  of  books, 
and  be  actually  incapable  of  reading  a  Iiundrcd  lines  of  the  wisest 
and  most  beautiful.  To  read  one  of  such  books  comes  only  by 
habit,  as  prayer  is  impossible  to  one  who  habitually  dreads  to  be 
alone. 

In  an  age  of  steam  it  seems  almost  idle  to  speak  of  Dante, 
the  most  profound,  the  most  meditative,  the  most  prophetic  of 
all  poets,  in  whose  epic  the  panorama  of  mediaeval  life,  of  feudal- 
ism at  its  best  and  Christianity  at  its  best,  stands,  as  in  a  micro- 
cosm, transfigured,  judged,  and  measured.  To  most  men,  the 
« Paradise  Lost,''  with  all  its  mighty  music  and  its  idyllic  pic- 
tures of  human  nature,  of  our  first-child  parents  in  their  naked 
purity  and  their  awakening  thought,  is  a  serious  and  ungrateful 
task  —  not  to  be  ranked  with  the  simple  enjoyments;  it  is  a  pos- 
session to  be  acquired  only  by  habit.  The  great  religious  poets, 
the  imaginative  teachers  of  the  heart,  are  never  easy  reading. 
But  the  reading  of  them  is  a  religious  habit,  rather  than  an  in- 
tellectual effort.  I  pretend  not  now  to  bo  dealing  with  a  mat- 
ter so  deep  and  high  as  religion,  or  indeed  with  education  in  the 
fuller  sense.  I  will  say  nothing  of  that  side  of  reading  which  is 
really  hard  study,  an  effort  of  duty,  matter  of  meditation  and 
reverential  thought.  I  need  speak  not  now  of  such  reading 
as  that  of  the  Bible;  the  moral  reflections  of  Socrates,  of  Aristotle, 
of  Confucius;  the  ^<  Confessions ''  of  St.  Augustine  and  the  ^' City 
of  God  *' ;  the  discourses  of  St.  Bernard,  of  Bossuet,  of  Bishop  But- 
ler, of  Jeremy  Taylor;  the  vast  philosophical  visions  that  were 
opened  to  the  eyes  of  Bacon  and  Descartes;  the  thoughts  of  Pas- 
cal and  Vauvenargues,  of  Diderot  and  Hume,  of  Condorcet  and 
de  Maistrc ;  the  problem  of  man's  nature  as  it  is  told  in  the  "  Ex- 
cursion,"  or  in  «  Faust,"  in  «Cain,'>  or  in  the  «  Pilgrim's  Progress  »; 
the  unsearchable  outpouring  of  tlie  heart  in  the  great  mystics,  of 
VI — 132 


2098  FREDERIC   HARRISON 

many  ages  and  many  races;  be  the  mysticism  that  of  David  or 
of  John,  of  Mahomet  or  of  Buddha;  of  Fdnclon  or  of  Shelley. 

I  pass  by  all  these.  For  I  am  speaking  now  of  the  use  of 
books  in  our  leisu.c  hours.  I  will  take  th  books  of  simple  en- 
joyment, bcoks  thr.t  one  can  lau^^h  over  ..nd  weep  over;  and  learn 
from,  and  laugh  and  weep  again  s  which  hr,vc  in  them  humor, 
truth,  human  nature  in  all  its  side::^,  pictures  of  the  great  phases 
of  human  history;  and  withal  sound  teaching  in  honesty,  manli- 
ness, gentleness,  patience.  Of  such  books,  I  say,  books  accepted 
by  the  voice  of  all  mankind  as  matchless  and  immortal,  there  is 
a  complete  library  at  hand  for  every  man,  in  his  every  mood, 
whatever  his  tastes  or  his  acquirements.  To  know  merely  the 
hundred  volumes  or  so  of  which  I  have  spoken  would  involve  the 
study  of  years.  But  who  can  say  that  these  books  are  read  as 
they  might  be,  that  we  do  not  neglect  them  for  something  in  a 
new  cover,  or  which  catches  our  eye  in  a  library  ?  It  is  not 
merely  to  the  idle  and  unreading  world  that  this  complaint  holds 
good.  It  is  the  insatiable  readers  themselves  who  so  often  read 
to  the  least  profit.  Of  course  they  have  read  all  these  household 
books  many  years  ago,  read  them,  and  judged  them,  and  put  them 
away  forever.  They  will  read  infinite  dissertations  about  these 
authors ;  they  will  write  you  essays  on  their  works ;  they  will  talk 
most  learned  criticism  about  them.  But  it  never  occurs  to  them 
that  such  books  hr.ve  a  daily  and  perpetual  value,  such  as  the  de- 
vout Christian  finds  in  his  morning  and  evening  psalm;  that  the 
music  of  them  has  to  sink  into  the  soul  by  continual  renewal; 
that  we  have  to  live  with  them  and  in  them,  till  their  ideal  world 
habitually  surrounds  us  in  the  midst  of  the  real  world ;  that  their 
great  thoughts  have  to  stir  us  daily  anew,  and  their  generous  pas- 
sion has  to  warm  us  hour  by  hour;  just  as  we  need  each  day  to 
have  our  eyes  filled  by  the  light  of  heaven,  and  our  blood  warmed 
by  the  glow  of  the  sun.  I  vow  that  when  I  see  men  forgetful 
of  the  perennial  poetry  of  the  world,  muck-raking  in  a  litter  of 
•fugitive  refuse,  I  think  of  that  wonderful  scene  in  the  "  Pilgrim's 
Progress,'^  where  the  Interpreter  shows  the  wayfarers  the  old  man 
raking  in  the  straw  and  dust,  whilst  he  will  not  see  the  Angel 
who  offers  him   a  crown  of  gold  and  precious  stones. 

This  gold,  refined  beyond  the  standard  of  the  goldsmith,  these 
pearls  of  great  price,  the  united  voice  of  mankind  has  assured  us 
are  found  in  those  immortal  works  of  every  age  and  of  every 
race    whose    names   are   household   words   throughout   the   world. 


FREDERIC   HARRISON  2099 

And  we  shut  our  eyes  to  them  for  the  sake  of  the  straw  and  lit- 
ter of  the  nearest  library  or  bookshop.  A  lifetime  will  hardly 
sufl&ce  to  know,  as  they  ought  to  be  known,  these  great  master- 
pieces of  man's  genius.  How  many  of  us  can  name  ten  men 
who  may  be  said  entirely  to  know  (in  the  sense  in  which  a 
thoughtful  Christian  knows  the  Psalms  and  the  Epistles)  even  a 
few  of  the  greatest  poets  ?  I  take  them  almost  at  random,  and 
I  name  Homer,  ^schylus,  Aristophanes,  Virgil,  Dante,  Ariosto, 
Shakespeare,  Cervantes,  Calderon,  Corneille,  Moliere,  Milton,  Field- 
ing, Goethe,  Scott.  Of  course  every  one  has  read  these  poets, 
but  who  really  knows  them,  the  whole  of  them,  the  whole  mean- 
ing of  them  ?  They  are  too  often  taken  **  as  read,  '*  as  they  say 
in  the  railway  meetings. 

Take  of  this  immortal  choir  the  liveliest,  the  easiest,  the  most 
familiar,  take  for  the  moment  the  three — Cervantes,  Moliere, 
Fielding.  Here  we  have  three  poets  who  unite  the  profoundest 
insight  into  human  nature  with  the  most  inimitable  wit :  ^*  Pen- 
seroso'*  and  ^*  L' Allegro '*  in  one;  "sober,  steadfast,  and  demure,^* 
and  yet  with  "  Laughter  holding  both  his  sides,  '*  And  in  all 
three,  different  as  they  are,  is  an  unfathomable  pathos,  a  brotherly 
pity  for  all  human  weakness,  spontaneous  sympathy  with  all  hu- 
man goodness.  To  know  "Don  Quixote,**  that  is  to  follow  out 
the  whole  mystery  of  its  double  world,  is  to  know  the  very  tragi- 
comedy of  human  life,  the  contrast  of  the  ideal  with  the  real,  of 
chivalry  with  good  sense,  of  heroic  failure  with  vulgar  utilitv, 
of  the  past  with  the  present,  of  the  impossible  sublime  with  the 
possible  commonplace.  And  yet  to  how  many  reading  men  is 
"  Don  Quixote  **  little  more  than  a  book  to  laugh  over  in  boy- 
hood! So  Moliere  is  read  or  witnessed;  we  laugh  and  we  praise. 
But  how  little  do  we  study  with  insight  that  elaborate  gallery  of 
human  character;  those  consummate  types  of  almost  every  social 
phenomenon;  that  genial  and  just  judge  of  imposture,  folly,  van- 
ity, affectation,  and  insincerity;  that  tragic  picture  of  the  brave 
man  born  out  of  his  time,  too  proud  and  too  just  to  be  of  use  in 
his  age!  Was  ever  truer  word  said  than  that  about  Fielding  as 
"  the  prose  Homer  of  human  nature "  ?  And  yet  how  often  do 
we  forget  in  "  Tom  Jones  "  the  beauty  of  unselfishness,  the  well- 
spring  of  goodness,  the  tenderness,  the  manly  healthiness  and 
heartiness  underlying  its  frolic  and  its  satire,  because  we  are  ab- 
sorbed, it  may  be,  in  laughing  at  its  humor,  or  are  simply  irritated 
by  its  grossness!     Nay,  ''Robinson  Cru-soe"  contains  (not  for  boys, 


2IOO  FREDERIC   HARRISON 

but  for  men)  more  religion,  more  philosophy,  more  psychology, 
more  political  economy,  more  anthropology,  than  are  found  in 
many  elaborate  treatises  on  these  special  subjects.  And  yet,  I 
imagine,  grown  men  do  not  often  read  ^^  Robinson  Crusoe  '^  as 
the  article  has  it,  ^^for  instruction  of  life  and  ensample  of  man- 
iiers.  ^^  The  great  books  of  the  world  we  have  once  read ;  we  take 
them  as  read;  we  believe  that  we  read  them;  at  least,  we  believe 
that  we  know  them.  But  to  how  few  of  us  are  they  daily  men- 
tal food!  For  once  that  we  take  down  our  Milton,  and  read  a 
book  of  that  ^Woice,-'  as  Wordsworth  says,  ^Svhose  sound  is  like 
the  sea,'^  we  take  up  fifty  times  a  magazine  with  something 
about  Milton,  or  about  Milton'c  grandmother,  or  a  book  stuffed 
with  curious  facts  about  the  houses  in  which  he  lived,  and  the 
juvenile   ailments  of  his  first   wife. 

And  whilst  the  roll  of  the  great  men  yet  unread  is  to  all  of 
us  so  long,  whilst  years  are  no';  enough  to  master  the  very  least 
of  them,  we  are  incessantly  searching  the  earth  for  something 
new  or  strangely  forgo ^cen.  Brilliant  sssays  are  forever  extol- 
ling some  minor  light.  It  becomes  the  fashion  to  grow  rapturous 
about  the  obscure  Elizabeth j,n  dramatists;  about  the  note  of  re- 
finement in  the  lesser  men  of  Queen  Anne  ;  it  is  pretty  to  swear 
by  Lyly's  « Euphues  ^'  and  Sidney's  ^'Arcadia » ;  to  vaunt  Love- 
lace and  Herrick,  Marveil  and  Donne,  Robert  Burton  and  Sir 
Thomas  Browne,  All  of  them  are  excellent  men,  who  have 
written  delightful  things,  that  may  very  well  be  enjoyed  when 
we  have  utterly  exhausted  tho  best.  But  when  one  meets  bevies 
of  hyperesthetic  young  maidens,  in  lackadaisical  gowns,  who 
simper  about  Greene  and  John  Ford  (authors,  let  us  trust,  that 
they  never  have  read),  one  wonders  if  they  all  know  «Lear»  or 
ever  heard  of  « Alceste. »  Since  to  nine  out  of  ten  of  the  « gen- 
eral readers »  the  very  best  is  as  yet  more  than  they  have  man- 
aged to  assimilate,  this  fidgeting  after  something  curioas  js  a 
little  prema'aire  and  perhaps  artificial. 

For  this  reason  I  stand  amazed  at  the  lengths  of  fantastic 
curiosity  to  which  persons  far  from  learned  have  pushed  the 
mania  for  collecting  rare  books,  or  prying  into  out-of-the-  way  holes 
and  corners  of  literature.  They  conduct  themselves  as  if  all  the 
works  attainable  by  ordinary  diligence  were  to  them  sucked  as 
dry  as  an  orange.  Says  one,  *  I  came  across  a  very  curious 
book  mentioned  in  a  parenthesis  in  the  ^  Religio  Medici.  ^  Only 
one  other  copy  exists  in   this   country.*^     I   will   not   mention   the 


FREDERIC   HARRISON  2 1 01 

work  to-night,  because  I  know  that,  if  I  did,  to-morrow  morning 
at  least  fifty  libraries  would  be  ransacked  for  it,  which  would  be 
unpardonable  waste  of  time.  "  I  am  bringing  out,  '^  says  another, 
quite  simply,  *^  *  The  Lives  of  the  Washerwomen  of  the  Queens 
of  England.  *  *  And  when  it  comes  out  we  shall  have  a  copious 
collection  of  washing  books  some  centuries  old,  and  at  length  un- 
derstand the  mode  of  ironing  a  ruff  in  the  early  mediaeval  period. 
A  very  learned  friend  of  mine  thinks  it  perfectly  monstrous  that 
a  public  library  should  be  without  an  adequate  collection  of 
works  in  Dutch,  though  I  believe  he  is  the  only  frequenter  of  it 
who  can  read  that  language.  Not  long  ago  I  procured  for  a 
Russian  scholar  a  manuscript  copy  of  a  very  rare  work  by 
Greene,  the  contemporary  of  Shakespeare.  Greene's  ^^  Funeralls  " 
is,  I  think,  as  dismal  and  worthless  a  set  of  lines  as  one  often 
sees;  and  as  it  has  slumbered  for  nearly  three  hundred  years,  I 
should  be  willing  to  let  it  be  its  own  undertaker.  But  this  un- 
savory carrion  is  at  last  to  be  dug  out  of  its  grave,  for  it  is  now 
translated  into  Russian  and  published  in  Moscow  (to  the  honor 
and  glory  of  the  Russian  professor)  in  order  to  delight  and  in- 
form the  Muscovite  public,  where  perhaps  not  ten  in  a  million 
can  as  much  as  read  Shakespeare.  This  or  that  collector  again, 
with  the  labor  of  half  a  lifetime  and  by  means  of  half  his  for- 
tune, has  amassed  a  library  of  old  plays,  every  one  of  them 
worthless  in  diction,  in  plot,  in  sentiment,  and  in  purpose;  a  col- 
lection far  more  stupid  and  uninteresting  in  fact  than  the  bur- 
lesques and  pantomimes  of  the  last  fifty  years.  And  yet  this 
insatiable  student  of  old  plays  will  probably  know  less  of  Moli^re 
and  Alfieri  than  Moliere's  housekeeper  or  Alfieri's  valet,  and 
possibly  he  has  never  looked  into  such  poets  as  Calderon  and 
Vondel. 

Collecting  rare  books  and  forgotten  authors  is  perhaps  of  all 
the  collecting  manias  the  most  foolish  in  our  day.  There  is  much 
to  be  said  for  rare  china  and  curious  beetles.  The  china  is  occa- 
sionally beautiful,  and  the  beetles  at  least  are  droll.  But  rare 
books  now  are,  by  the  nature  of  the  case,  worthless  books,  and 
their  rarity  usually  consists  in  this:  that  the  printer  made  a  blun- 
der in  the  text,  or  that  they  contain  something  exceptionally  nasty 
or  silly.  To  affect  a  profound  interest  in  neglected  authors  and 
uncommon  books  is  a  sign,  for  the  most  part,  not  that  a  man 
has  'exhausted  the  resources  of  ordinary  literature,  but  that  he 
has  no  real  respect  for  the  greatest  productions  of   the   greatest 


ii02  FREDERIC  HARRISON 

men  in  the  world.  This  bibliomania  seizes  hold  of  rational  beings 
and  so  perverts  them,  that  in  the  sufferer's  mind  the  human  race 
exists  for  the  sake  of  the  books,  and  not  the  books  for  the  sake 
of  the  human  race.  There  is  one  book  they  might  read  to  good 
purpose  —  the  doings  of  a  great  book  collector  who  once  lived  in 
La  Mancha.  To  the  collector,  and  sometimes  to  the  scholar,  the 
book  becomes  a  fetich  or  idol,  and  is  worthy  of  the  worship  of 
mankind,  even  if  it  cannot  be  the  slightest  use  to  anybody.  As 
the  book  exists,  it  must  have  the  compliment  paid  it  of  being 
invited  to  the  shelves.  The  "  library  is  imperfect  without  it,"  al- 
though the  library  will,  so  to  speak,  stink  when  it  has  got  it.  The 
great  books  are  of  course  the  common  books,  and  these  are  treated 
by  collectors  and  librarians  with  sovereign  contempt.  The  more 
dreadful  an  abortion  of  a  book  the  rare  volume  may  be,  the  more 
desperate  is  the  struggle  of  libraries  to  possess  it.  Civilization  in 
fact  has  evolved  a  complete  apparatus,  an  order  of  men  and  a 
code  of  ideas  for  the  express  purpose,  one  may  say,  of  degrading 
the  great  books.  It  suffocates  them  under  mountains  of  little 
books,  and  give  the  place  of  honor  to  that  which  is  plainly  liter- 
ary carrion. 

Now  I  suppose,  at  the  bottom  of  all  this  lies  that  rattle  and 
restlessness  of  life  which  belongs  to  the  industrial  maelstrom 
wherein  we  ever  revolve.  And  connected  therewith  comes  also 
that  literary  dandyism  which  results  from  the  pursuit  of  letters 
without  any  social  purpose  or  any  systematic  faith.  To  read  from 
the  pricking  of  some  cerebral  itch  rather  than  from  a  desire  of 
forming  judgments;  to  get,  like  an  Alpine  club  stripling,  to  the 
top  of  some  unsealed  pinnacle  of  culture ;  to  use  books  as  a  seda- 
tive, as  a  means  of  exciting  a  mild  intellectual  titillation,  instead 
of  as  a  means  of  elevating  the  nature ;  to  dribble  on  in  a  perpet- 
ual literary  gossip  in  order  to  avoid  the  effort  of  bracing  the  mind 
to  think  —  such  is  our  habit  in  an  age  of  utterly  chaotic  educa- 
tion.    We  read,  as  the  bereaved  poet  made  rhymes  — 

<*  For  the  unquiet  heart  and  brain, 

A  use  in  measured  language  lies; 
The  sad  mechanic  exercise, 
Like  dull  narcotics,  numbing  pain." 

We,  for  whom  steam  and  electricity  have  done  almost  everything 
except  give  us  bigger  brains  and   hearts,  who  have  a  new  inven- 


FREDERIC   HARRISON  2103 

tion  ready  for  every  meeting  of  the  Royal  Institution,  who  want 
new  things  to  talk  about  faster  than  children  want  new  toys  to 
break,  we  canno't  take  up  the  books  we  have  seen  about  us  since 
our  childhood:  Milton,  or  Moli^re,  or  Scott.  It  feels  like  donning 
knee  breeches  and  buckles,  to  read  what  everybody  has  read,  that 
everybody  can  read,  and  which  our  very  fathers  thought  good 
entertainment  scores  of  years  ago.  Hard-worked  men  and  over- 
wrought women  crave  an  occupation  which  shall  free  them  from 
their  thoughts  and  yet  not  take  them  from  their  world.  And  thus 
it  comes  that  we  need  at  least  a  thousand  new  books  every  sea- 
son, whilst  we  have  rarely  a  spare  hour  left  for  the  greatest  of 
all.  But  I  am  getting  into  a  vein  too  serious  for  .our  purpose: 
education  is  a  long  and  thorny  topic.  I  will  cite  but  the  words, 
on  this  head,  of  the  great  Bishop  Butler:  *  The  great  number  of 
books  and  papers  of  amusement  which,  of  one  kind  or  another, 
daily  come  in  one's  way,  have  in  part  occasioned,  and  most  per- 
fectly fall  in  with  and  humor,  this  idle  way  of  reading  and  con- 
sidering things.  By  this  means  time,  even  in  solitude,  is  happily 
got  rid  of,  without  the  pain  of  attention ;  neither  is  any  part  of  it 
more  put  to  the  account  of  idleness,  one  can  scarce  forbear  say- 
ing, is  spent  with  less  thought  than  great  part  of  that  which  is 
spent  in  reading."  But  this  was  written  exactly  a  century  and  a 
half  ago,  in  1729;  since  which  date,  let  us  trust,  the  multiplicity 
of  print  and  the  habits  of  desultory  reading  have  considerably 
abated. 

A  philosopher  with  whom  I  hold  (but  with  whose  opinion  I 
have  no  present  intention  of  troubling  you)  has  proposed  a  method 
of  dealing  with  this  indiscriminate  use  of  books,  which  I  think 
is  worthy  of  attention.  He  has  framed  a  short  collection  of  books 
for  constant  and  general  reading.  He  put  it  forward  **  with  the 
view  of  guiding  the  more  thoughtful  minds  among  the  people  in 
their  choice  for  constant  use. "  He  declares  that,  "  both  the  in- 
tellect and  the  moral  character  suffer  grievously  at  the  present 
time  from  irregular  reading.'*  It  was  not  intended  to  put  a  bar 
upon  other  reading,  or  to  supersede  special  study.  It  is  designed 
as  a  type  of  a  healthy  and  rational  syllabus  of  essential  books,  fit 
for  common  teaching  and  daily  use.  It  presents  a  working  epitome 
of  what  is  best  and  most  enduring  in  the  literature  of  the  world. 
The  entire  collection  would  form,  in  the  shape  in  which  books  now 
exist  in  modern  libraries,  something  like  five  hundred  volumes. 
They  embrace  books  both  of  ancient  and  modern  times,  in  all  the 


2I04  FREDERIC   HARRISON 

five  principal  languages  of  modern  Europe.  It  is  divided  into 
four  sections:   poetry,  science,  history,  religion. 

The  principles  on  what  it  is  framed  are  these:  First  it  col- 
lects the  best  in  all  the  great  departments  of  human  thought,  so 
that  no  part  of  education  shall  be  wholly  wanting.  Next  it  puts 
together  the  greatest  books,  of  universal  and  permanent  value, 
and  the  greatest  and  the  most  enduring  only.  Next  it  measures 
the  greatness  of  books  not  by  their  brilliancy,  or  even  their 
learning,  but  by  their  power  of  presenting  some  typical  chapter 
in  thought,  some  dominant  phase  of  history;  or  else  it  measures 
them  by  their  power  of  idealizing  man  and  nature,  or  of  giving 
harmony  to  our  moral  and  intellectual  activity.  Lastly,  the  test 
of  the  general  value  of  books  is  the  permanent  relation  they  bear 
to  the  common  civilization  of  Europe. 

Some  such  firm  foothold  in  the  vast  and  increasing  torrent  of 
literature  it  is  certainly  urgent  to  find,  unless  all  that  is  great 
in  literature  is  to  be  borne  away  in  the  flood  of  books.  With 
this  we  may  avoid  an  interminable  wandering  over  a  pathless 
waste  of  waters.  Without  it,  we  may  read  everything  and  know 
nothing;  we  may  be  curious  about  anything  that  chances,  and 
indifferent  to  everything  that  profits.  Having  such  a  catalogue 
before  our  eyes,  with  its  perpetual  warning, —  non  mult  a  sed  mul- 
tuvi, —  we  shall  see  how  with  our  insatiable  consumption  of  print 
we  wander,  like  unclassed  spirits,  round  the  outskirts  only  of 
these  Elysian  fields  where  the  great  dead  dwell  and  hold  high 
converse.  As  it  is  we  hear  but  in  a  faint  echo  that  voice  which 
cries:  — 

**  Onorate  raltissimo  Pacta  : 
L'ombra  sua  torna,  cJiera  dipartita.'" 

We  need  to  be  reminded  every  day  how  many  are  the  books  of 
inimitable  glory,  which,  with  all  our  eagerness  after  reading,  we 
have  never  taken  in  our  hands.  It  will  astonish  most  of  us  to 
find  how  much  of  our  very  industry  is  given  to  the  books  which 
leave  no  mark,  how  often  we  rake  in  the  litter  of  the  printing 
press,  whilst  a  crown  of  gold  and  rubies  is  offered  us  in  vain. 

Complete.     From  the  original  text  as  it  was  read  before  the  London  Insti- 
tution and  published  in  the  Fortnightly  Review,  April  ist,  1879. 


2I05 


JOHN  HAWKESWORTH 

(c.  1715-1773) 

;HE  Adventurer,  which  gave  Hawkesworth  his  place  among 
classical  English  essayists,  was  founded  by  him  in  1752.  He 
had  Johnson.  Bathurst,  and  Warton  for  coadjutors,  but  of  the 
one  hundred  and  forty  numbers  which  appeared,  seventy-six  are  attrib- 
uted to  Hawkesworth  himself.  He  is  highly  praised  by  the  author 
of  the  "Readers'  Handbook, ^^  and  in  his  own  generation  the  Arch- 
bishop of  Canterbury  made  him  a  LL.D.  for  his  essays.  A  single 
one  of  them,  however,  will  be  sufficient  to  illustrate  both  the  John- 
sonian style  and  the  moral  ideas  of  the  others.  Hawkesworth  was  born 
in  London  about  17 15.  He  began  life  as  apprentice  to  a  clockmaker, 
but  getting  a  similar  place  in  an  attorney's  office,  he  found  oppor- 
tunity to  develop  his  taste  for  books.  "When  in  1744  Dr.  Johnson 
ceased  compiling  (or  composing)  his  remarkable  parliamentary  re- 
ports for  the  Gentleman's  Magazine,  Hawkesworth  succeeded  him. 
In  1 76 1  he  edited  Swift's  works  and  published  a  volume  of  "Fairy 
Tales. ^*  In  1773  he  published  three  volumes  of  the  papers  of  Cap- 
tain Cook,  for  editing  which  the  English  government  paid  him  ^6,000. 
His  work  was  severely  criticized,  however,  and  it  is  said  that  his 
death  (November  17th,  1773)  was  hastened  by  his  abnormal  sensitive- 
ness. 


ON   GOSSIP  AND   TATTLING 

Miato  fivrj/jLOi/a   Zu/nroTrjv. 

— Greek  Proverb. 

"Far  from  my  table  be  the  telltale  guest.* 

IT  HAS  been  remarked  that  men  are  generally  kind  in  proportion 
as  they  are  happy;  and  it  is  said  even  of  the  devil,  that  he  is 
good-humored  when  he  is  pleased.  Every  act,  therefore,  by 
which  another  is  injured,  from  whatever  motive,  contracts  more 
guilt  and  expresses  great  malignity,  if  it  is  committed  in  those 
seasons  which  are  set  apart  to  pleasantry  and  good-humor,  and 
brightened  with  enjoyments  peculiar  to  rational  and  social  beings. 


2io6  JOHN  HAWKESWORTH 

Detraction  is  among  those  vices,  which  the  most  lang^iid  vir- 
tue has  sufficient  force  to  prevent;  because,  by  detraction,  that 
is  not  gained  which  is  taken  away :  <<  He  who  filches  from  me 
my  good  name,*'  says  Shakespeare,  « enriches  not  himself,  but 
makes  me  poor  indeed*':  as  nothing,  therefore,  degrades  human 
nature  more  than  detraction,  nothing  more  disgraces  conversa- 
tion. The  detractor,  as  he  is  the  lowest  moral  character,  reflects 
greater  dishonor  upon  his  company  than  the  hangman;  and  he 
whose  disposition  is  a  scandal  to  his  species  should  be  more  dili- 
gently avoided  than  he  who  is  scandalous  only  by  his  office. 

But  for  this  practice,  however  vile,  some  have  dared  to  apol- 
ogize, by  contending  that  the  report  by  which  they  injured  an 
absent  character  was  true:  this,  however,  amounts  to  no  more 
than  that  they  have  not  complicated  malice  with  falsehood,  and 
that  there  is  some  difference  between  detraction  and  slander.  To 
relate  all  the  ill  that  is  true  of  the  best  man  in  the  world  would 
probably  render  him  the  object  of  suspicion  and  distrust;  and  if 
this  practice  were  universal,  mutual  confidence  and  esteem,  the 
comforts  of  society,  and  the  endearments  of  friendship  would  be 
at  an  end. 

There  is  something  unspeakably  more  hateful  in  those  species 
of  villainy  by  which  the  law  is  evaded  than  in  those  by  which  it 
is  violated  and  defied.  Courage  has  sometimes  preserved  rapacity 
from  abhorrence,  as  beauty  has  been  thought  to  apologize  for 
prostitution;  but  the  injustice  of  cowardice  is  universally  abhorred, 
and,  like  the  lewdness  of  deformity,  has  no  advocate.  Thus  hate- 
ful are  the  wretches  who  detract  with  caution;  and  while  they 
perpetrate  the  wrong,  are  solicitous  to  avoid  the  reproach :  they  do 
not  say  that  Chloe  forfeited  her  honor  to  Lysander,  but  they 
say  that  such  a  report  has  been  spread,  they  know  not  how  true. 
Those  who  propagate  these  reports  frequently  invent  them,  and 
it  is  no  breach  of  charity  to  suppose  this  to  be  always  the  case, 
because  no  man  who  spreads  detraction  would  have  scrupled  to 
produce  it,  and  he  who  should  diffuse  poison  in  a  brook  would 
scarce  be  acquitted  of  a  malicious  design,  though  he  should  allege 
that  he  received  it  of  another  who  is  doing  the  same  elsewhere. 
Whatever  is  incompatible  with  the  highest  dignity  of  our  na- 
ture should  indeed  be  excluded  from  our  conversation.  As  com- 
panions, not  only  that  which  we  owe  to  ourselves,  but  to  others, 
is  required  of  us;    and   they  who   can   indulge   any  vice   in   the 


JOHN   HAWKESWORTH  21 07 

presence  of  each  other  are  become  obdurate  in  guilt  and  insen- 
sible to  infamy. 

Reverence  thyself,  is  one  of  the  sublime  precepts  of  that  ami- 
able philosopher,  whose  humanity  alone  was  an  incontestible  proof 
of  the  dignity  of  his  mind.  Pythagoras,  in  his  idea  of  virtue, 
comprehended  intellectual  purity;  and  he  supposed  that  by  him 
who  reverenced  himself  those  thoughts  would  be  suppressed  by 
which  a  being  capable  of  virtue  is  degraded.  This  divine  precept 
evidently  presupposes  a  reverence  of  others,  by  which  men  are  re- 
strained from  more  gross  immoralities;  and  with  which  he  hoped 
a  reverence  of  self  would   also  co-operate  as  an  auxiliary  motive. 

The  great  Duke  of  Marlborough,  who  was  perhaps  the  most 
accomplished  gentleman  of  his  age,  would  never  suffer  any  ap- 
proaches to  obscenity  in  his  presence;  and  it  was  said  by  the  late 
Lord  Cobham,  that  he  did  not  reprove  it  as  an  immorality  in  the 
speaker,  but  resented  it  as  an  indignity  to  himself:  and  it  is  evi- 
dent that  to  speak  evil  of  the  absent,  to  utter  lewdness,  blas- 
phemy, or  treason,  must  degrade  not  only  him  who  speaks,  but 
those  who  hear;  for  surely  that  dignity  of  character  which  a  man 
ought  always  to  sustain  is  in  danger  when  he  is  made  the  con- 
fidant of  treachery,  detraction,  impiety,  or  lust:  for  he,  who  in 
conversation  displays  his  own  vices,  imputes  them;  as  he  who 
boasts  to  another  of  a  robbery  presupposes  that  he  is  a  thief. 

It  should  be  a  general  rule  never  to  utter  anything  in  con- 
versation which  would  justly  dishonor  us  if  it  should  be  reported 
to  the  world.  If  this  rule  could  be  always  kept,  we  should  be  se- 
cure in  our  own  innocence  against  the  craft  of  knaves  and  para- 
sites,  the  stratagems  of  cunning,  and  the  vigilance  of  envy. 

But  after  all  the  bounty  of  nature,  and  all  the  labor  of  virtue, 
many  imperfections  will  be  still  discerned  in  human  beings,  even 
by  those  who  do  not  see  with  all  the  perspicacity  of  human  wis- 
dom; and  he  is  guilty  of  the  most  aggravated  detraction,  whore- 
ports  the  weakness  of  a  good  mind  discovered  in  an  unguarded 
hour;  something  which  is  rather  the  effect  of  negligence  than  de- 
sign; rather  a  folly  than  a  fault;  a  sally  of  vanity  rather  than 
an  eruption  of  malevolence.  It  has  therefore  been  a  maxim  in- 
violably sacred  among  goo4  men,  never  to  disclose  the  secrets  of 
private  conversation;  a  maxim,  which  though  it  seems  to  arise 
from  the  breach  of  some  other,  does  yet  imply  that  general  rec- 
titude, which  is  produced  by  a  consciousness  of  virtuoTis  dignity, 
and    a   regard    to   that  reverence   which    is    due   to    ourselves    and 


2io8  JOHN   HAWKESWORTH 

others:  for  to  conceal  any  immoral  purpose,  which  to  disclose  is 
to  disappoint;  any  crime,  which  to  hide  is  to  countenance;  or  any 
character,  which  to  avoid  is  to  be  safe;  as  it  is  incompatible  with 
virtue,  and  injurious  to  society,  can  be  a  law  only  among  those 
who  are  enemies  to  both. 

Among  such,  indeed,  it  is  a.  law  which  there  is  some  degree 
of  obligation  to  fulfill;  and  the  secrets  even  of  their  conversation 
are,  perhaps,  seldom  disclosed,  without  an  aggravation  of  their 
guilt;  it  is  the  interest  of  society,  that  the  veil  of  taciturnity 
should  be  drawn  over  the  mysteries  of  drunkenness  and  lewd- 
ness; and  to  hide  even  the  machinations  of  envy,  ambition,  or  re- 
venge, if  they  happen  to  mingle  in  these  orgies  among  the  rites 
of  Bacchus,  seems  to  be  the  duty  of  the  initiated,  though  not  of 
the  profane. 

If  he  who  has  associated  with  robbers,  who  has  reposed  and 
accepted  a  trust,  and  whose  guilt  is  a  pledge  of  his  fidelity,  should 
betray  his  associates  for  hire;  if  he  is  urged  to  secure  himself, 
by  the  anxiety  of  suspicion,  or  the  terrors  of  cowardice,  or  to 
punish  others  by  the  importunity  of  resentment  and  revenge; 
though  the  public  receive  benefit  from  his  conduct,  and  may 
think  it  expedient  to  reward  him,  yet  he  has  only  added  to  every 
other  species  of  guilt  that  of  treachery  to  his  friends:  he  has 
demonstrated  that  he  is  so  destitute  of  virtue  as  not  to  possess 
even  those  vices  which  resemble  it;  and  that  he  ought  to  be  cut 
off  as  totally  unfit  for  human  society,  but  that,  as  poison  is  an 
antidote  to  poison,  his  crimes  are  a  security  against  the  crimes  of 
others. 

It  is,  however,  true  that  if  such  an  offender  is  stung  with  re- 
morse, if  he  feels  the  force  of  higher  obligations  than  those  of 
an  iniquitous  compact,  and  if  urged  by  a  desire  to  atone  for  the 
injury  which  he  has  done  to  society,  he  gives  in  his  information 
and  delivers  up  his  associates,  with  whatever  reluctance,  to  the 
laws;  by  this  sacrifice  he  ratifies  his  repentance,  he  becomes  again 
the  friend  of  his  country,  and  deserves  not  only  protection,  but 
esteem:  for  the  same  action  may  be  either  virtuous  or  vicious, 
and  may  deserve  either  honor  or  infamy,  as  it  may  be  performed 
upon  different  principles;  and  indeed  no  action  can  be  morally 
classed  or  estimated  without  some  knowledge  of  the  motive  by 
which  it  is  produced. 

But  as  there  is  seldom  any  other  clue  to  the  motives  of  par- 
ticular  actions   than  the  general  tenor  of  his  life   by  whom  they 


JOHN   HAWKESWORTH  2109 

are  performed;  and  as  the  lives  of  those  who  serve  their  country 
by  bringing  its  enemies  to  punishment  are  commonly  flagitious 
in  the  highest  degree;  the  ideas  of  this  service,  and  the  most  sor- 
did villainy  are  so  connected  that  they  always  recur  together:  if 
only  this  part  of  a  character  is  known,  we  immediately  infer  that  the 
whole  is  infamous;  and  it  is,  therefore,  no  wonder  that  the  name 
by  which  it  is  expressed,  especially  when  it  is  used  to  denominate 
a  profession,  should  be  odious;  or  that  a  good  man  should  not 
always  have  sufficient  fortitude  to  strike  away  the  mask  of  dis- 
simulation, and  direct  the  sword  of  justice. 

But  whatever  might  be  thought  of  those  who  discharge  their 
obligations  to  the  public  by  treachery  to  their  companions,  it 
cannot  be  pretended  that  he  to  whom  an  immoral  design  is  com- 
municated by  inadvertence  or  mistake  is  under  any  private  obli- 
gation to  conceal  it;  the  charge  which  devolves  upon  him,  he 
must  instantly  renounce :  for  while  he  hesitates,  his  virtue  is  sus- 
pended: and  he  who  communicates  such  design  to  another,  not 
by  inadvertence  or  mistake,  but  upon  presumption  of  concurrence, 
commits  an  outrage  upon  his  honor,  and  defies  his  resentment. 

Let    none,  therefore,    be    encouraged    to    profane   the    rites   of 

conversation,  much  less  of   friendship,  by  supposing  there   is  any 

law    which  ought   to   restrain   the   indignation    of    virtue,  or   deter 

repentance  from  reparation. 

From  the  Adventurer  complete. 


NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE 

(1-804-1864) 

!f  Nathaniel  Hawthorne  had  not  been  one  of  the  best  story- 
tellers of  modern  times,  he  might  have  been  the  greatest 
American  essayist.  As  it  is,  he  has  left  only  a  few  idyls  to 
suggest  what  he  might  have  done  as  an  essayist,  if  he  had  loved  to 
express  his  thoughts  directly  as  well  as  he  does  to  involve  them  in 
allegory.  In  the  subtlety  with  which  he  conceals  a  deep  allegorical 
meaning  under  what  is  seemingly  a  story  told  for  its  own  sake,  he 
often  approaches  the  «  Odyssey  »  itself,  and  perhaps  among  Moderns  he 
is  only  approached  by  De  la  Motte  Fouque.  He  was  born  in  Salem, 
Massachusetts,  July  4th,  1804.  At  Bowdoin  College,  where  he  was 
graduated  in  1825,  he  had  John  S.  C.  Abbott  and  Longfellow  for 
classmates.  And  in  1837,  when  his  « Twice-Told  Tales »  appeared, 
Longfellow  noticed  them  favorably  in  the  North  American  Review. 
It  was  not  until  1839,  however,  that  Hawthorne's  genius  was  officially 
recognized  by  his  appointment  as  "  weigher  and  ganger »  in  the  Fed- 
eral customs  service, —  a  position  he  owed  to  the  good  offices  of  the 
historian  Bancroft,  then  collector  of  customs  at  Boston.  From  1846 
to  1850  Hawthorne  was  himself  « surveyor  of  the  port"  of  Salem,  and 
during  this  period  he  found  leisure  to  write  « The  Scarlet  Letter," 
an  immortal  work  which  if  it  be  thus  the  result  of  the  favoritism  of 
President  Polk  for  a  fellow-Democrat,  is  the  one  result  of  his  ad- 
ministration for  which  posterity  will  thank  him  more  than  for  all 
the  rest.  In  accounting  for  it,  it  is  worth  remembering  that  one 
of  Hawthorne's  own  ancestors  was  a  Puritan  magistrate,  a  witch- 
finder  and  a  persecutor  of  Quakers.  After  taking  up  his  residence  in 
the  «  Manse  "  at  Concord,  Hawthorne  enjoyed  the  friendship  of  Emer- 
son and  Thoreau,  to  whom,  in  nearly  everything,  he  was  as  unlike 
as  possible.      He  died  —  or   perhaps  we   should    say,   his  avatar  ended 

—  May  19th,  1864.  His  was  a  mind  which  took  hold  on  the  super- 
natural as  part  of  its  own  essence.  Among  the  story-tellers  of  all 
ages,  no  higher  or  sweeter  soul  has  come  on  earth  to  give  human 
nature  assurance  of  its  divine  possibilities.  It  is  the  consciousness  of 
such  divinity  which  sounds  in  the  minor  chords  of  Hawthorne's 
harmonies.  His  feeling  for  eternal  things  saddened  him  with  the 
things  of  time,  but  his  sadness  is  a  manifestation  of  his  highest  hope, 

—  a  part  of  that  pain  which  the  genius  of  Edmund  Burke  has  rec- 
ognized as  inevitably  incident  to  consciousness  of  the  sublime. 


NATHANIEL    HaWTHORNE 


THE   HALL   OF    FANTASY 


IT  HAS  happened  to  me  on  various  occasions  to  find  myself  in  a 
certain  edifice  which  would  appear  to  have  some  of  the  char- 
acteristics of  a  public  exchange.  Its  interior  is  a  spacious 
hall,  with  a  pavement  of  white  marble.  Overhead  is  a  lofty  dome, 
supported  by  long  rows  of  pillars  of  fantastic  architecture,  the 
idea  of  which  was  probably  taken  from  the  Moorish  ruins  of  the 
Alhambra,  or  perhaps  from  some  enchanted  edifice  in  the  Arabian 
tales.  The  windows  of  this  hall  have  a  breadth  and  grandeur  of 
design  and  an  elaborateness  of  workmanship  that  have  nowhere 
been  equaled,  except  in  the  Gothic  cathedrals  of  the  Old  World. 
Like  their  prototypes,  too,  they  admit  the  light  of  heaven  only 
through  stained  and  pictured  glass,  thus  filling  the  hall  with  many- 
colored  radiance  and  painting  its  marble  floor  with  beautiful  or 
grotesque  designs;  so  that  its  inmates'  breathe,  as  it  were,  a  vi- 
sionary atmosphere,  and  tread  upon  the  fantasies  of  poetic  minds. 
These  peculiarities,  combining  a  wilder  mixture  of  styles  than  even 
an  American  architect  usually  recognizes  as  allowable, —  Grecian, 
Gothic,  Oriental,  and  nondescript,  —  cause  the  whole  edifice  to  give 
the  impression  of  a  dream,  which  might  be  dissipated  and  shat- 
tered to  fragments  by  merely  stamping  the  foot  upon  the  pave- 
ment. Yet,  with  such  modifications  and  repairs  as  successive  ages 
demand,  the  Hall  of  Fantasy  is  likely  to  endure  longer  than  the 
most  substantial  structure  that  ever  cumbered  the  earth. 

It  is  not  at  all  times  that  one  can  gain  admittance  into  this 
edifice,  although  most  persons  enter  it  at  some  period  or  other  of 
their  lives ;  if  not  in  their  waking  moments,  then  by  the  universal 
passport  of  a  dream.  At  my  last  visit  I  wandered  thither  unawares 
while  my  mind  was  busy  with  an  idle  tale,  and  was  startled  by 
the  throng  of  people  who  seemed  suddenly  to  rise  up  around 
me. 

"  Bless  me!  Where  am  I  ?  '*  cried  I,  with  but  a  dim  recognition 
of  the  place. 

"You  are  in  a  spot,"  said  a  friend  who  chanced  to  be  near  at 
hand,  "  which  occupies  in  the  world  of  fancy  the  same  position 
which  the  Bourse,  the  Rialto,  and  the  Exchange  do  in  the  com- 
mercial world.  All  who  have  affairs  in  that  mystic  region,  which 
lies  above,  below,  or  beyond  the  actual,  may  here  meet  and  talk 
over  the  business  of  their  dreams." 


2112  NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE 

«  It  is  a  noble  hall,  ^  observed  I. 

«Yes,»  he  replied.  « Yet  we  see  but  a  small  portion  of  the 
edifice.  In  its  upper  stories  are  said  to  be  apartments  where  the 
inhabitants  of  earth  may  hold  converse  with  those  of  the  moon; 
and  beneath  our  feet  are  gloomy  cells,  which  communicate  with 
the  infernal  regions,  and  where  monsters  and  chimeras  are  kept 
in  confinement  and  fed  with  all  unwholesomeness.  '^ 

In  niches  and  on  pedestals  around  about  the  hall  stood  the 
statues  or  busts  of  men  who  in  every  age  have  been  rulers  and 
demigods  in  the  realms  of  imagination  and  its  kindred  regions. 
The  grand  old  countenance  of  Homer;  the  shrunken  and  decrepit 
form,  but  vivid  face  of  ^sop;  the  dark  presence  of  Dante;  the 
wild  Ariosto;  Rabelais's  smile  of  deep- wrought  mirth;  the  pro- 
found^ pathetic  humor  of  Cervantes;  the  all-glorious  Shakespeare; 
Spenser,  meet  guest  for  an  allegoric  structure ;  the  severe  divinity 
of  Milton ;  and  Bunyan,  molded  of  homeliest  clay,  but  instinct  with 
celestial  fire,—  were  those  that  chiefly  attracted  my  eye.  Field- 
ing, Richardson,  and  Scott  occupied  conspicuous  pedestals.  In  an 
obscure  and  shadowy  niche  was  deposited  the  bust  of  our  country- 
man, the  author  of  **  Arthur  Mervyn.  '> 

« Besides  these  indestructible  memorials  of  real  genius,  >>  re- 
marked my  companion,  «each  century  has  erected  statues  of  its 
own  ephemeral  favorites  in  wood.'^ 

«I  observe  a  few  crumbling  relics  of  such,^^  said  I.  ^*But  ever 
and  anon,  I  suppose.  Oblivion  comes  with  her  huge  broom  and 
sweeps  them  all  from  the  marble  floor.  But  such  will  never  be 
the  fate  of  this  fine  statue  of  Goethe. » 

«Nor  of  that  next  to  it,— Emanuel  Swedenborg,»  said  he. 
«  Were  ever  two  men  of  transcendent  imagination  more  unlike  ? " 
In  the  centre  of  the  hall  springs  an  ornamental  fountain,  the 
water  of  which  continually  throws  itself  into  new  shapes  and 
snatches  the  most  diversified  hues  from  the  stained  atmosphere 
around.  It  is  impossible  to  conceive  what  a  strange  vivacity  is 
imparted  to  the  scene  by  the  magic  dance  of  this  fountain,  with 
its  endless  transformations,  in  which  the  imaginative  beholder 
may  discern  what  form  he  will.  The  water  is  supposed  by  some 
to  flow  from  the  same  source  as  the  Castilian  spring,  and  is  ex- 
tolled by  others  as  uniting  the  virtues  of  the  Fountain  of  Youth 
with  those  of  many  other  enchanted  wells  long  celebrated  in  tale 
and  song.  Having  never  tasted  it,  I  can  bear  no  testimony  to  its 
quality. 


NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE  2113 

«Did  you  ever  drink  this  water  ? »   I  inquired  of  my  friend. 
«A  few  sips   now   and   then,*^  answered  he.      "But   there  are 
men  here  who  make  it  their  constant  beverage,— or,  at  least,  have 
the    credit  of  doing    so.      In    some    instances  it  is  known  to  have 
intoxicating  qualities.  *^ 

«  Pray,  let  us  look  at  these  water  drinkers,'*  said  I. 
So  we  passed  among  the  fantastic  pillars  till  we  came  to  a  spot 
where  a  number  of  persons  were  clustered  together  in  the  light 
of  one  of  the  great  stained  windows,  which  seemed  to  glorify  the 
whole  group  as  well  as  the  marble  that  they  trod  on.  Most  of 
them  were  men  of  broad  foreheads,  meditative  countenances,  and 
thoughtful,  inward  eyes;  yet  it  required  but  a  trifle  to  summon 
up  mirth,  peeping  out  from  the  very  midst  of  grave  and  lofty 
musings.  Some  strode  about,  or  leaned  against  the  pillars  of  the 
hall,  alone  and  in  silence;  their  faces  wore  a  rapt  expression,  as 
if  sweet  music  were  in  the  air  around  them,  or  as  if  their  inmost 
souls  were  about  to  float  away  in  song.  One  or  two,  perhaps, 
stole  a  glance  at  the  bystanders,  to  watch  if  their  poetic  absorp- 
tion were  observed.  Others  stood  talking  in  groups,  with  a  live- 
liness of  expression,  a  ready  smile,  and  a  light,  intellectual  laughter, 
which  showed  how  rapidly  the  shafts  of  wit  were  glancing  to  and 
fro  among  them. 

A  few  held  higher  converse,  which  caused  their  calm  and 
melancholy  souls  to  beam  moonlight  from  their  eyes.  As  I  lin- 
gered near  them, —  for  I  felt  an  inward  attraction  towards  these 
men,  as  if  the  sympathy  of  feeHng,  if  not  of  genius,  had  united 
me  to  their  order, —  my  friend  mentioned  several  of  their  names. 
The  world  has  likewise  heard  those  names;  with  some  it  has  been 
familiar  for  years;  and  others  are  daily  making  their  way  deeper 
into  the  universal  heart. 

"Thank  Heaven, *>  observed  I  to  my  companion,  as  we  passed 
to  another  part  of  the  hall,  "we  have  done  with  this  techy,  way- 
ward, shy,  proud  unreasonable  set  of  laurel  gatherers.  I  love 
them  in  their  works,  but  have  little  desire  to  meet  them  else- 
where.** 

"You  have  adopted  an  old  prejudice.  I  see,**  replied  my 
friend,  who  was  familiar  with  most  of  these  worthies,  being  him- 
self a  student  of  poetry,  and  not  without  the  poetic  flame.  "  But, 
so  far  as  my  experience  goes,  men  of  genius  are  fairly  gifted 
with^the  social  qualities;  and  in  this  age  there  appears  to  be  a 
fellowfeeling  among  them  which  had  not  heretofore  been  devel- 
VI — 133 


«li4  NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE 

oped.  As  men,  they  ask  nothing  better  than  to  be  on  equal 
terms  with  their  fellowmen;  and  as  authors,  they  have  thrown 
aside  their  proverbial  jealousy,  and  acknowledge  a  generous 
brotherhood.  ** 

"  The  world  does  not  think  so,  *  answered  I.  "  An  author  is 
received  in  general  society  pretty  much  as  we  honest  citizens  are 
in  the  Hall  of  Fantasy.  We  gaze  at  him  as  if  he  had  no  busi- 
ness among  us,  and  question  whether  he  is  fit  for  any  of  our 
pursuits. " 

"Then  it  is  a  very  foolish  question,*  said  he.  « Now,  here 
are  a  class  of  men  whom  we  may  daily  meet  on  'Change.  Yet 
what  poet  in  the  hall  is  more  a  fool  of  fancy  than  the  sagest  of 
them  ? » 

He  pointed  to  a  number  of  persons,  who,  manifest  as  the  fact 
was,  would  have  deemed  it  an  insult  to  be  told  that  they  stood 
in  the  Hall  of  Fantasy.  Their  visages  were  traced  into  wrinkles 
and  furrows,  each  of  which  seemed  the  record  of  some  actual 
experience  in  life.  Their  eyes  had  the  shrewd,  calculating  glance 
which  detects  so  quickly  and  so  surely  all  that  it  concerns  a 
man  of  business  to  know  about  the  characters  and  purposes  of 
his  fellowmen.  Judging  them  as  they  stood,  they  might  be  hon- 
ored and  trusted  members  of  the  Chamber  of  Commerce,  who 
had  found  the  genuine  secret  of  wealth  and  whose  sagacity  gave 
them  the  command  of  fortune.  There  was  a  character  of  detail 
and  matter  of  fact  in  their  talk  which  concealed  the  extravagance 
of  its  purport,  insomuch  that  the  wildest  schemes  had  the  aspect 
of  every-day  realities.  Thus  the  listener  was  not  startled  at  the 
idea  of  cities  to  be  built,  as  if  by  magic,  in  the  heart  of  pathless 
forests;  and  of  streets  to  be  laid  out  where  now  the  sea  was 
tossing;  and  of  mighty  rivers  to  be  stayed  in  their  courses  in  or- 
der to  turn  the  machinery  of  a  cotton  mill.  It  was  only  by  an 
effort,  and  scarcely  then,  that  the  mind  convinced  itself  that  such 
speculations  were  as  much  matter  of  fantasy  as  the  old  dream  of 
Eldorado,  or  as  Mammon's  Cave,  or  any  other  vision  of  gold 
ever  conjured  up  by  the  imagination  of  needy  poet  or  romantic 
adventurer. 

**  Upon  my  word, "  said  I,  *  it  is  dangerous  to  listen  to  such 
dreamers  as  these.     Their  madness  is  contagious.** 

*Yes,**  said  my  friend,  "because  they  mistake  the  Hall  of 
Fantasy  for  actual  brick  and  mortar,  and  its  purple  atmosphere 
for    unsophisticated    sunshine.     But    the    poet    knows    his   where- 


NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE  2 115 

about,  and    therefore  is  less  likely  to   make   a  fool  of  himself   in 
real  life.» 

« Here  again/  observed  I,  as  we  advanced  a  little  further, 
«  we  see  another  order  of  dreamers,  peculiarly  characteristic,  too, 
of  the  genius  of  our  country.* 

These  were  the  inventors  of  fantastic  machines.  Models  of 
their  contrivances  were  placed  against  some  of  the  pillars  of  the 
hall,  and  afforded  good  emblems  of  the  result  generally  to  be 
anticipated  from  an  attempt  to  reduce  daydreams  to  practice. 
The  analogy  may  hold  in  morals  as  well  as  physics;  for  instance, 
here  was  the  model  of  a  railroad  through  the  air  and  a  tunnel 
under  the  sea.  Here  was  a  machine  —  stolen,  I  believe  —  for  the 
distillation  of  heat  from  moonshine;  and  another  for  the  con- 
densation of  morning  mist  into  square  blocks  of  granite,  where- 
with it  was  proposed  co  rebuild  the  entire  Hall  of  Fantasy. 
One  man  exhibited  a  sort  of  lens  whereby  he  had  succeeded 
in  making  sunshine  out  of  a  lady's  smile;  and  it  was  his  pur- 
pose wholly  to  irradiate  the  earth  by  means  of  this  wonderful 
invention. 

*  It  is  nothing  new,'*  said  I;  "for  most  of  our  sunshine  comes 
from  woman's  smile  already." 

"True,"  answered  the  inventor;  "but  my  machine  will  secure 
a  constant  supply  for  domestic  use,  whereas  hitherto  it  has  been 
very  precarious." 

Another  person  had  a  scheme  for  fixing  the  reflections  of  ob- 
jects in  a  pool  of  water,  and  thus  taking  the  most  lifelike  portraits 
imaginable;  and  the  same  gentleman  demonstrated  the  practica- 
bility of  giving  a  permanent  dye  to  ladies'  dresses,  in  the  gorgeous 
clouds  of  sunset.  There  were  at  least  fifty  kinds  of  perpetual  mo- 
tion, one  of  which  was  applicable  to  the  wits  of  newspaper  edi- 
tors and  writers  of  every  description.  Professor  Espy  was  here, 
with  a  tremendous  storm  in  a  gum-elastic  bag.  I  could  enumer- 
ate many  more  of  these  Utopian  inventions;  but,  after  all,  a  more 
imaginative  collection  is  to  be  found  in  the  Patent  Office  at  Wash- 
ington. 

Turning  from  the  inventors,  we  took  a  more  general  survey  of 
the  inmates  of  the  hall.  Many  persons  were  present  whose  right 
of  entrance  appeared  to  consist  in  some  crotchet  of  the  bram, 
which,  so  long  as  it  might  operate,  produced  a  change  in  their 
relation  to  the  actual  world.  It  is  singular  how  very  few  there 
are  who   do   not   occasionally  gain    admittance   on   such   a  score, 


21 16  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

either  in  abstracted  musings,  or  momentary  thoughts,  or  bright 
anticipations,  or  vivid  remembrances ;  for  even  the  actual  becomes 
ideal,  whether  in  hope  or  memory,  and  beguiles  the  dreamer  into 
the  Hall  of  Fantasy.  Some  unfortunates  make  their  whole  abode 
and  business  here,  and  contract  habits  which  unfit  them  for  all 
the  real  employments  of  life.  Others  —  but  these  are  few  —  pos- 
sess the  faculty,  in  their  occasional  visits,  of  discovering  a  purer 
truth  than  the  world  can  impart  among  the  lights  and  shadows 
of  these  pictured  windows. 

And  with  all  its  dangerous  influences,  we  have  reason  to  thank 
God  that  there  is  such  a  place  of  refuge  from  the  gloom  and  chill- 
ness  of  actual  life.  Hither  may  come  the  prisoner,  escaping  from 
his  dark  and  narrow  cell  and  cankerous  chain,  to  breathe  free  air 
in  this  enchanted  atmosphere.  The  sick  man  leaves  his  weary 
pillow,  and  finds  strength  to  wander  hither,  though  his  wasted 
limbs  might  not  support  him  even  to  the  threshold  of  his  cham- 
ber. The  exile  passes  through  the  Hall  of  Fantasy  to  revisit  his 
native  soil.  The  burden  of  years  rolls  down  from  the  old  man's 
shoulders  the  moment  that  the  door  uncloses.  Mourners  leave 
their  heavy  sorrows  at  the  entrance,  and  here  rejoin  the  lost  ones 
whose  faces  would  else  be  seen  no  more,  until  thought  shall  have 
become  the  only  fact.  It  may  be  said,  in  truth,  that  there  is  but 
half  a  life  —  the  meaner  and  earthlier  half  —  for  those  who  never 
find  their  way  into  the  hall.  Nor  must  I  fail  to  mention  that  in 
the  observatory  of  the  edifice  is  kept  that  wonderful  perspective- 
glass,  through  which  the  shepherds  of  the  Delectable  Mountains 
showed  Christian  the  far-off  gleam  of  the  Celestial  City.  The 
eye  of  Faith  still  loves  to  gaze  through  it. 

*<  I  observe  some  men  here,  **  said  I  to  my  friend,  "  who  might 
set  up  a  strong  claim  to  be  reckoned  among  the  most  real  per- 
sonages of  the  day.'' 

^^  Certainly, ''  he  replied.  ^^  If  a  man  be  in  advance  of  his  age, 
he  must  be  content  to  make  his  abode  in  this  hall  until  the  lin- 
gering generations  of  his  fellowmen  come  up  with  him.  He 
can  find  no  other  shelter  in  the  universe.  But  the  fantasies  of- 
one  day  are  the  deepest  realities  of  a  future  one.'' 

^^  It  is  difficult  to  distinguish  them  apart  amid  the  gorgeous 
and  bewildering  light  of  this  hall,"  rejoined  I.  "The  white  sun- 
shine of  actual  life  is  necessary  in  order  to  test  them,  I  am 
rather  apt  to  doubt  both  men  and  their  reasonings  till  I  meet 
them  in  that  truthful  medium." 


NATHANIEL    HAWTHORNE  21 17 

"  Perhaps  your  faith  in  the  ideal  is  deeper  than  you  are  aware, " 
said  my  friend.  **  You  are  at  least  a  democrat;  and  methinks  no 
scanty  share  of  such  faith  is  essential  to  the  adoption  of  that 
creed.  *^ 

Among  the  characters  who  had  elicited  these  remarks  were 
most  of  the  noted  reformers  of  the  day,  whether  in  physics,  poli- 
tics, morals,  or  religion.  There  is  no  surer  method  of  arriving-  at 
the  Hall  of  Fantasy  than  to  throw  oneself  into  the  current  of 
a  theory;  for,  whatever  landmarks  of  fact  may  be  set  up  along 
the  stream,  there  is  a  law  of  nature  that  impels  it  thither.  And 
let  it  be  so;  for  here  the  wise  head  and  capacious  heart  may  do 
their  work;  and  what  is  good  and  true  becomes  gradually  hard- 
ened into  fact,  while  error  melts  away  and  vanishes  among  the 
shadows  of  the  hall.  Therefore  may  none  who  believe  and  re- 
joice in  the  progress  of  mankind  be  angry  with  me  because  I 
recognized  their  apostles  and  leaders  amid  the  fantastic  radiance 
of  those  pictured  windows.  I  love  and  honor  such  men  as  well 
as  they. 

It  would  be  endless  to  describe  the  herd  of  real  or  self-styled 
reformers  that  peopled  this  place  of  refuge.  They  were  the  rep- 
resentatives of  an  unquiet  period,  when  mankind  is  seeking  to 
cast  oflE  the  whole  tissue  of  ancient  custom  like  a  tattered  gar- 
ment. Many  of  them  had  got  possession  of  some  crystal  frag- 
ment of  truth,  the  brightness  of  which  so  dazzled  them  that  they 
could  see  nothing  else  in  the  wide  universe.  Here  were  men 
whose  faith  had  embodied  itself  in  the  form  of  a  potato;  and 
others  whose  long  beards  had  a  deep  spiritual  significance.  Here 
was  the  abolitionist,  brandishing  his  one  idea  like  an  iron  flail. 
In  a  word,  there  were  a  thousand  shapes  of  good  and  evil,  faith 
and  infidelity,  wisdom  and  nonsense, —  a  most  incongruous  throng. 

Yet,  withal,  the  heart  of  the  stanchest  conservative,  unless  he 
abjured  his  fellowship  with  man,  could  hardly  have  helped  throb- 
bing in  sympathy  with  the  spirit  that  pervaded  these  innumera- 
ble theorists.  It  was  good  for  the  man  of  unquickened  heart  to 
listen  even  to  their  folly.  Far  down  beyond  the  fathom  of  the 
intellect  the  soul  acknowledged  that  all  these  varying  and  con- 
flicting developments  of  humanity  were  united  in  one  sentiment. 
Be  the  individual  theory  as  wild  as  fancy  could  make  it,  still  the 
wiser  spirit  would  recognize  the  struggle  of  the  race  after  a  bet- 
ter and  purer  life  than  had  yet  been  realized  on  earth.  My 
faith  revived  even  while   I   rejected   all   their  schemes.      It  could 


21 18  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

not  be  that  the  world  should  continue  forever  what  it  has  been; 
a  soil  where  Happiness  is  so  rare  a  flower  and  Virtue  so  often  a 
blighted  fruit;  a  battlefield  where  the  good  principle,  with  its 
shield  flung-  above  its  head,  can  hardly  save  itself  amid  the  rush 
of  adverse  influences.  In  the  enthusiasm  of  such  thoughts  I  gazed 
through  one  of  the  pictured  windows,  and  behold !  the  whole  exter- 
nal world  was  tinged  with  the  dimly  glorious  aspect  that  is  pecul- 
iar to  the  Hall  of  Fantasy,  insomuch  that  it  seemed  practicable 
at  that  very  instant  to  realize  some  plan  for  the  perfection  of 
mankind.  But,  alas!  if  reformers  would  understand  the  sphere 
in  which  their  lot  is  cast,  they  must  cease  to  look  through  pic- 
tured windows.  Yet  they  not  only  use  this  medium,  but  mistake 
it  for  the  whitest  sunshine. 

"Come,"  said  I  to  my  friend,  starting  from  a  deep  reverie, 
"let  us  hasten  hence,  or  I  shall  be  tempted  to  make  a  theory, 
after  which  there  is  little  hope  of  any  man.* 

"  Come  hither,  then,  *  answered  he.  "  Here  is  one  theory  that 
swallows  up  and  annihilates  all  others.* 

He  led  me  to  a  distant  part  of  the  hall  where  a  crowd  of 
deeply  attentive  auditors  were  assembled  round  an  elderly  man 
of  plain,  honest,  trustworthy  aspect.  With  an  earnestness  that 
betokened  the  sincerest  faith  in  his  own  doctrine,  he  announced 
that  the  destruction  of  the  world  was  close  at  hand. 

*  It  is  Father  Miller  himself !  *  exclaimed  I. 

"No  less  a  man,*  said  my  friend;  "and  observe  how  pictur- 
esque a  contrast  between  his  dogma  and  those  of  the  reformers 
whom  we  have  just  glanced  at.  They  look  for  the  earthly  per- 
fection of  mankind,  and  are  forming  schemes  which  imply  that 
the  immortal  spirit  will  be  connected  with  a  physical  nature  for 
innumerable  ages  of  futurity.  On  the  other  hand,  here  comes 
good  Father  Miller,  and  with  one  puff  of  his  relentless  theory 
scatters  all  their  dreams  like  so  many  withered  leaves  upon  the 
blast.  * 

"  It  is,  perhaps,  the  only  method  of  getting  mankind  out  of 
the  various  perplexities  into  which  they  have  fallen,"  I  replied. 
"  Yet  I  could  wish  that  the  world  might  be  permitted  to  endure 
until  some  great  moral  shall  have  been  evolved.  A  riddle  is  pro- 
pounded. Where  is  the  solution  ?  The  sphinx  did  not  slay  her- 
self until  her  riddle  had  been  guessed.  Will  it  not  be  so  with 
the  world?  Now,  if  it  should  be  burned  to-morrow  morning,  I 
am  at  a  loss  to  know  what  purpose  will  have  been  accomplished, 


;JATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE  8119 

or  how  the   universe   will  be  wiser  or  better  for  our  existence 
and  destruction." 

«  We  cannot  tell  what  mighty  truths  may  have  been  embodied 
in  act  through  the  existence  of  the  globe  and  its  inhabitants,* 
rejoined  my  companion.  *^  Perhaps  it  may  be  revealed  to  us  after 
the  fall  of  the  curtain  over  our  catastrophe;  or  not  impossibly, 
the  whole  drama,  in  which  we  are  involuntary  actors,  may  have 
been  performed  for  the  instruction  of  another  set  of  spectators. 
I  cannot  perceive  that  our  own  comprehension  of  it  is  at  all  es- 
sential to  the  matter.  At  any  rate,  while  our  view  is  so  ridicu- 
lously narrow  and  superficial  it  would  be  absurd  to  argue  the 
continuance  of  the  world  from  the  fact  that  it  seems  to  have  ex- 
isted hitherto  in  vain.* 

«The  poor  old  earth,*  murmured  I.  «  She  has  faults  enough, 
in  all  conscience;  but  I  cannot  bear  to  have  her  perish.* 

«It  is  no  great  matter,*  said  my  friend.  «  The  happiest  of  us 
has  been  weary  of  her  many  a  time  and  oft.* 

«I  doubt  it,*  answered  I,  pertinaciously;  *Hhe  root  of  human 
nature  strikes  down  deep  into  this  earthly  soil,  and  it  is  but  re- 
luctantly that  we  submit  to  be  transplanted,  even  for  a  higher 
cultivation  in  heaven.  I  query  whether  the  destruction  of  the 
earth  would  gratify  any  one  individual,  except  perhaps  some  em- 
barrassed man  of  business  whose  notes  fall  due  a  day  after  the 
day  of  doom.* 

Then  methought  I  heard  the  expostulating  cry  of  a  multitude 
against  the  consummation  prophesied  by  Father  Miller.  The 
lover  wrestled  with  Providence  for  his  foreshadowed  bliss.  Par- 
ents entreated  that  the  earth's  span  of  endurance  might  be  pro- 
longed by  some  seventy  years,  so  that  their  newborn  infant 
should  not  be  defrauded  of  his  lifetime.  A  youthful  poet  mur- 
mured because  there  would  be  no  posterity  to  recognize  the  in- 
spiration of  his  song.  The  reformers,  one  and  all,  demanded  a 
few  thousand  years  to  test  their  theories,  after  which  the  universe 
might  go  to  wreck.  A  mechanician,  who  was  busied  with  an  im- 
provement of  the  steam  engine,  asked  merely  time  to  perfect  his 
model.  A  miser  insisted  that  the  world's  destruction  would  be  a 
personal  wrong  to  himself,  unless  he  should  first  be  permitted  to 
add  a  specified  sum  to  his  enormous  heap  of  gold.  A  little  boy 
made  dolorous  inquiry  whether  the  last  day  would  come  before 
Christmas,  and  thus  deprive  him  of  his  anticipated  dainties.  In 
short,  nobody  seemed    satisfied    that    this   mortal    scene  of   things 


2I2C  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

should  have  its  close  just  now.  Yet,  it  must  be  confessed,  the 
motives  of  the  crowd  for  desiring  its  continuance  were  mostly  so 
absurd  that  unless  Infinite  Wisdom  had  been  aware  of  much  bet- 
ter reasons,  the  solid  earth  must  have  melted  away  at  once. 

For  my  own  part,  not  to  speak  of  a  few  private  and  personal 
ends,  I  really  desired  our  old  mother's  prolonged  existence  for 
her  own  dear  sake. 

^*  The  poor  old  earth !  ^^  I  repeated.  <<  What  I  should  chiefly 
regret  in  her  destruction  would  be  that  very  earthliness  which  no 
other  sphere  or  state  of  existence  can  renew  or  compensate.  The 
fragrance  of  flowers  and  of  new-mown  hay;  the  genial  warmth 
of  sunshine,  and  the  beauty  of  a  sunset  among  clouds;  the  com- 
fort and  cheerful  glow  of  the  fireside;  the  deliciousness  of  fruits 
and  of  all  good  cheer;  the  magnificence  of  mountains,  and  seas, 
and  cataracts,  and  the  softer  charm  of  rural  scenery;  even  the 
fast-falling  snow  and  the  gray  atmosphere  through  which  it  de- 
scends,—  all  these  and  innumerable  other  enjoyable  things  of  earth 
must  perish  with  her.  Then  the  country  frolics;  the  homely  hu- 
mor; the  broad,  open-mouthed  roar  of  laughter,  in  which  body 
and  soul  conjoin  so  heartily!  I  fear  that  no  other  world  can 
show  us  anything  just  like  this.  As  for  purely  moral  enjoyments, 
the  good  will  find  them  in  every  state  of  being.  But  where  the 
material  and  the  moral  exist  together,  what  is  to  happen  then  ? 
And  then  our  mute  four-footed  friends  and  the  winged  songsters 
of  our  woods!  Might  it  not  be  lawful  to  regret  them,  even  in 
the  hallowed  groves  of  Paradise  ?  *^ 

^  You  speak  like  the  very  spirit  of  earth,  imbued  with  a  scent 
of  freshly  turned  soil,*^  exclaimed  my  friend. 

^*  It  is  not  that  I  so  much  object  to  giving  up  these  enjoy- 
ments on  my  own  account,'^  continued  I,  "but  I  hate  to  think  that 
they  will  have  been  eternally  annihilated  from  the  list  of  joys." 

"  Nor  need  they  be,  ^^  he  replied.  "  I  see  no  real  force  in  what 
you  say.  Standing  in  this  Hall  of  Fantasy,  we  perceive  what 
even  the  earth-clogged  intellect  of  man  can  do  in  creating  circum- 
stances which,  though  we  call  them  shadowy  and  visionary,  are 
scarcely  more  so  than  those  that  surround  us  in  actual  life. 
Doubt  not,  then,  that  man's  disembodied  spirit  may  re-create  time 
and  the  world  for  itself,  with  all  their  peculiar  enjoyments,  should 
there  still  be  human  yearnings  amid  life  eternal  and  infinite. 
But  I  doubt  whether  we  shall  be  inclined  to  play  such  a  poor 
scene  over  again. '^ 


NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE  212 1 

■  Oh,  you  are  ungrateful  to  our  mother  earth ! "  rejoined  I. 
"Come  what  may,  I  never  will  forget  her!  Neither  will  it  sat- 
isfy me  to  have  her  exist  merely  in  idea.  I  want  her  great,  round, 
solid  self  to  endure  interminably,  and  still  to  be  peopled  with  the 
kindly  race  of  man,  whom  I  uphold  to  be  much  better  than  he 
thinks  himself.  Nevertheless,  I  confide  the  whole  matter  to  Provi- 
dence, and  shall  endeavor  so  to  live  that  the  world  may  come  to 
an  end  at  any  moment  without  leaving  me  at  a  loss  to  find  foot- 
hold somewhere  else.** 

"  It  is  an  excellent  resolve,**  said  my  companion,  looking  at  his 
watch.  ^*  But  come ;  it  is  the  dinner  hour.  Will  you  partake  of 
my  vegetable  diet  ?  ** 

A  thing  so  matter  of  fact  as  an  invitation  to  dinner,  even  when 
the  fare  was  to  be  nothing  more  substantial  than  vegetables  and 
fruit,  compelled  us  forthwith  to  remove  from  the  Hall  of  Fantasy. 
As  we  passed  out  of  the  portal  we  met  the  spirits  of  several  per- 
sons who  had  been  sent  thither  in  magnetic  sleep.  I  looked 
back  among  the  sculptured  pillars  and  at  the  transformations  of 
the  gleaming  fountain,  and  almost  desired  that  the  whole  of  life 
might  be  spent  in  that  visionary  scene  where  the  actual  world, 
with  its  hard  angles,  should  never  rub  against  me,  and  only  be 
viewed  through  the  medium  of  pictured  windows.  But  for  those 
who  waste  all  their  days  in  the  Hall  of  Fantasy,  good  Father 
Miller's  prophecy  is  already  accomplished,  and  the  solid  earth  has 
come  to  an  untimely  end.  Let  us  be  content,  therefore,  with 
merely  an  occasional  visit,  for  the  sake  of  spiritualizing  the  gross- 
ness  of  this  actual  life,  and  prefiguring  to  ourselves  a  state  in 
which  the  Idea  shall  be  all  in  all. 

Complete.     From  "Mosses  from  an 
Old  Manse. » 


A    RILL    FROM   THE   TOWN    PUMP 

{^cene—The  corner  of  two  principal  streets.       The    Town  Pump  talking 

through  its  nose.) 

NOON,  by  the   north   clock!     Noon,   by  the  east!      High    noon, 
too,    by    these    hot    sunbeams,   which    fall,   scarcely    aslope, 
upon    my    head,   and   almost    make    the    water    bubble    and 
smoke  in  the  trough  under  my  nose.     Truly  we  public  characters 
have    a   tough    time    of   it!      And    among   all   the    town   officers, 


2122  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

chosen  at  March  meeting,  where  is  he  that  sustains,  for  a  single 
year,  the  burden  of  such  manifold  duties  as  are  imposed,  in  per- 
petuity, upon  the  Town  Pump  ?  The  title  of  ^<  town  treasurer  ** 
is  rightfully  mine,  as  guardian  of  the  best  treasure  that  the  town 
has.  The  overseers  of  the  poor  ought  to  make  me  their  chair- 
man, since  I  provide  bountifully  for  the  pauper,  without  expense 
to  him  that  pays  taxes.  I  am  at  the  head  of  the  fire  department, 
and  one  of  the  physicians  to  the  Board  of  Health.  As  a  keeper 
of  the  peace,  all  water  drinkers  will  confess  me  equal  to  the  con- 
stable. I  perform  some  of  the  duties  of  the  town  clerk,  by  pro- 
mulgating public  notices,  when  they  are  pasted  on  my  front.  To 
speak  within  bounds,  I  am  the  chief  person  of  the  municipality, 
and  exhibit,  moreover,  an  admirable  pattern  to  my  brother  offi- 
cers, by  the  cool,  steady,  upright,  downright,  and  impartial  dis- 
charge of  my  business,  and  the  constancy  with  which  I  stand  to 
my  post.  Summer  or  winter,  nobody  seeks  me  in  vain;  for  all 
day  long  I  am  seen  at  the  busiest  comer,  just  above  the  market, 
stretching  out  my  arms  to  rich  and  poor  alike;  and  at  night,  I 
hold  a  lantern  over  my  head,  both  to  show  where  I  am  and 
to  keep  people  out  of  the  gutters. 

At  this  sultry  noontide  I  am  cupbearer  to  the  parched  popu- 
lace, for  whose  benefit  an  iron  goblet  is  chained  to  my  waist. 
Like  a  dramseller  on  the  mall,  at  muster  day,  I  cry  aloud  to  all 
and  sundry  in  my  plainest  accents,  and  at  the  very  tiptop  of  my 
voice:  Here  it  is,  gentlemen!  Here  is  the  good  liquor!  Walk  up, 
walk  up,  gentlemen,  walk  up,  walk  up!  Here  is  the  superior 
stuff!  Here  is  the  unadulterated  ale  of  father  Adam— better 
than  Cognac,  Hollands,  Jamaica,  strong  beer,  or  wine  of  any  price, 
here  it  is  by  the  hogshead  or  the  single  glass,  and  not  a  cent  to 
pay !     Walk  up,  gentlemen,  walk  up,  and  help  yourselves. 

It  were  a  pity  if  all  this  outcry  should  draw  no  customers. 
Here  they  come.  A  hot  day,  gentlemen!  Quaff,  and  away  again, 
so  as  to  keep  yourselves  in  a  nice  cool  sweat.  You,  my  friend, 
will  need  another  cupful,  to  wash  the  dust  out  of  your  throat,  if 
it  be  as  thick  there  as  it  is  on  your  cowhide  shoes.  I  see  that 
you  have  trudged  half  a  score  of  miles  to-day;  and,  like  a  wise 
man,  have  passed  by  the  taverns,  and  stopped  at  the  running 
brooks  and  well  curbs.  Otherwise,  betwixt  heat  without  and  a 
fire  within,  you  would  have  been  burnt  to  a  cinder,  or  melted 
down  to  nothing  at  all,  in  the  fashion  of  a  jellyfish.  Drink,  and 
make  room  for  that  other  fellow,  who  seeks  my  aid  to  quench  the 


NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE  2 1 23 

fiery  fever  of  last  night's  potations,  which  he  drained  from  no  cup 
of  mine.  Welcome,  most  rubicund  sir!  You  and  I  have  been 
great  strangers  hitherto;  nor,  to  express  the  truth,  will  my  nose 
be  anxious  for  a  closer  intimacy,  till  the  fumes  of  your  breath  be  a 
little  less  potent.  Mercy  on  you,  man !  the  water  absolutely  hisses 
down  your  red-hot  gullet,  and  is  converted  quite  to  steam  in  the 
miniature  Tophet  which  you  mistake  for  a  stomach.  Fill  again, 
and  tell  me  on  the  word  of  an  honest  toper,  did  you  ever,  in  cel- 
lar, tavern,  or  any  kind  of  a  dramshop,  spend  the  price  of  your 
children's  food  for  a  swig  half  so  delicious  ?  Now,  for  the  first  time 
these  ten  years,  you  know  the  flavor  of  cold  water.  Good-bye; 
and,  whenever  you  are  thirsty,  remember  that  I  keep  a  constant 
supply  at  the  old  stand.  Who  next  ?  Oh,  my  little  friend,  you 
are  let  loose  from  school,  and  come  hither  to  scrub  your  bloom- 
ing face,  and  drown  the  memory  of  certain  taps  of  the  ferule, 
and  other  schoolboy  troubles,  in  a  draught  from  the  Town  Pump. 
Take  it,  pure  as  the  current  of  your  young  life.  Take  it,  and 
may  your  heart  and  tongue  never  be  scorched  with  a  fiercer  thirst 
than  now!  There,  my  dear  child,  put  down  the  cup  and  yield 
your  place  to  this  elderly  gentleman,  who  treads  so  tenderly  over 
the  stones,  that  I  suspect  he  is  afraid  of  breaking  them.  What !  he 
limps  by  without  so  much  as  thanking  me,  as  if  my  hospitable 
offers  were  meant  only  for  people  who  have  no  wine  cellars.  Well, 
well,  sir,  —  no  harm  done,  I  hope!  Go,  draw  the  cork,  tip  the  decan- 
ter; but  when  your  great  toe  shall  set  you  a-roaring,  it  will  be  no 
affair  of  mine.  If  gentlemen  love  the  pleasant  titillation  of  the 
gout,  it  is  all  one  to  the  Town  Pump.  This  thirsty  dog,  with  his 
red  tongue  lolling  out,  does  not  scorn  my  hospitality,  but  stands 
on  his  hind  legs,  and  laps  eagerly  out  of  the  trough.  See  how 
lightly  he  capers  away  again.  Jowler,  did  your  worship  ever  have 
the  gout  ? 

Are  you  all  satisfied  ?  Then  wipe  your  mouths,  my  good  friends; 
and  while  my  spout  has  a  moment's  leisure,  I  will  delight  the 
town  with  a  few  historical  reminiscences.  In  far  antiquity,  be- 
neath a  darksome  shadow  of  venerable  boughs,  a  spring  bubbled 
out  of  the  leaf-strown  earth,  in  the  very  spot  where  you  now  be- 
hold me  on  the  sunny  pavement.  The  water  was  as  bright  and 
clear,  and  deemed  as  precious  as  liquid  diamonds.  The  Indian 
Sagamores  drank  of  it  from  time  immemorial,  till  the  fearful  del- 
uge of-  fire  water  burst  upon  the  red  men,  and  swept  their  whole 
race  away  from    the  cold    fountains.     Endicott   and   his  followers 


2124  NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE 

came  next,  and  often  knelt  down  to  drink,  dipping  their  long 
beards  in  the  spring.  The  richest  goblet  then  was  of  birch  bark. 
Governor  Winthrop,  after  a  journey  afoot  from  Boston,  drank  here, 
out  of  the  hollow  of  his  hand.  The  elder  Higginson  here  wet  his 
palm,  and  laid  it  on  the  brow  of  the  first  town-born  child.  For 
many  years  it  was  the  watering  place,  and,  as  it  were,  the  washbowl 
of  the  vicinity  —  whither  all  decent  folks  resorted,  to  purify  their 
visages  and  gaze  at  them  afterwards  —  at  least  the  pretty  maid- 
ens did  —  in  the  mirror  which  it  made.  On  Sabbath  days,  when- 
ever a  babe  was  to  be  baptized,  the  sexton  filled  his  basin  here, 
and  placed  it  on  the  communion  table  of  the  humble  meeting- 
house, which  partly  covered  the  site  of  yonder  stately  brick  one. 
Thus  one  generation  after  another  was  consecrated  to  heaven  by 
its  waters,  and  cast  their  waxing  and  waning  shadows  into  its 
glassy  bosom,  and  vanished  from  the  earth  as  if  mortal  life  were 
but  a  flitting  image  in  a  fountain.  Finally,  the  fountain  vanished 
also.  Cellars  were  dug  on  all  sides,  and  cartloads  of  gravel  flung 
upon  its  source,  whence  oozed  a  turbid  stream,  forming  a  mud 
puddle  at  the  corner  of  two  streets.  In  the  hot  months,  when  its 
refreshment  was  most  needed,  the  dust  flew  in  clouds  over  the 
forgotten  birthplace  of  the  waters,  now  their  grave.  But,  in  the 
course  of  time,  a  town  pump  was  sunk  into  the  source  of  the  an- 
cient spring ;  and  when  the  first  decayed,  another  took  its  place  — 
and  then  another,  and  still  another  —  till  here  stand  I,  gentlemen 
and  ladies,  to  serve  you  with  my  iron  goblet.  Drink,  and  be  re- 
freshed! The  water  is  pure  and  cold  as  that  which  slaked  the 
thirst  of  the  red  Sagamore  beneath  the  aged  boughs,  though  now 
the  gem  of  the  wilderness  is  treasured  under  these  hot  stones, 
where  no  shadow  falls  but  from  the  brick  buildings.  And  be  it 
the  moral  of  my  story,  that,  as  the  wasted  and  long-lost  fountain 
is  now  known  and  prized  again,  so  shall  the  virtues  of  cold 
water,  too  little  valued  since  your  fathers'  days,  be  recognized  by 
all. 

Your  pardon,  good  people;  I  must  interrupt  my  stream  of 
eloquence  and  spout  forth  a  stream  of  water,  to  replenish  the 
trough  for  this  teamster  and  his  two  yoke  of  oxen,  who  have 
come  from  Topsfield,  or  somewhere  along  that  way.  No  part  of 
my  business  is  pleasanter  than  the  watering  of  cattle.  Look! 
how  rapidly  they  lower  the  watermark  on  the  sides  of  the 
trough,  till  their  capacious  stomachs  are  moistened  with  a  gallon 
or  two  apiece,  and   they  can   afford   time   to   breathe  it  in,  with 


NATHANIEL   HAWTIJORNE  2 1 25 

sighs  of  oalm  enjoyment.  Now  they  roll  their  quiet  eyes  around 
the  brim  of  their  monstrous  drinking  vessel.  An  ox  is  your  true 
toper. 

But  I  perceive,  my  dear  auditors,  that  you  are  impatient  for 
the  remainder  of  my  discourse.  Impute  it,  I  beseech  you,  to  no 
defect  of  modesty,  if  I  insist  a  little  longer  on  so  fruitful  a  topic 
as  my  own  multifarious  merits.  It  is  altogether  for  your  good. 
The  better  you  think  of  me  the  better  men  and  women  will  you 
find  yourselves.  I  shall  say  nothing  of  my  all-important  aid  on 
washing  days;  though,  on  that  account  alone,  I  might  call  myself 
the  household  god  of  a  hundred  families.  Far  be  it  from  me 
also  to  hint,  my  respectable  friends,  at  the  show  of  dirty  faces 
which  you  would  present  without  my  pains  to  keep  you  clean. 
Nor  will  I  remind  you  how  often,  when  the  midnight  bells  make 
you  tremble  for  your  combustible  town,  you  have  fled  to  the 
Town  Pump,  and  found  me  always  at  my  post,  firm  amid  the 
confusion,  and  ready  to  drain  my  vital  current  in  your  behalf. 
Neither  is  it  worth  while  to  lay  much  stress  on  my  claims  to  a 
medical  diploma,  as  the  physician  whose  simple  rule  of  practice 
is  preferable  to  all  the  nauseous  lore  which  has  found  men  sick, 
or  left  them  so,  since  the  days  of  Hippocrates.  Let  us  take  a 
broader  view  of  my  beneficial  influence  on  mankind. 

No;  these  are  trifles  compared  with  the  merits  which  wise 
men  concede  to  me  —  if  not  in  my  single  self,  yet  as  the  repre- 
sentative of  a  class  —  of  being  the  grand  reformer  of  the  age. 
From  my  spout,  and  such  spouts  as  mine,  must  flow  the  stream 
that  shall  cleanse  our  earth  of  the  vast  portion  of  its  crime  and 
anguish,  which  has  gushed  from  the  fiery  fountains  of  the  still. 
In  this  mighty  enterprise  the  cow  shall  be  my  great  confederate. 
Milk  and  water!  The  Town  Pump  and  the  Cow!  Such  is  the 
glorious  copartnership  that  shall  tear  down  the  distilleries  and 
brewhouses,  uproot  the  vineyards,  shatter  the  cider  presses,  ruin 
the  tea  and  coffee  trade,  and  finally  monopolize  the  whole  busi- 
ness of  quenching  thirst.  Blessed  consummation!  Then,  Poverty 
shall  pass  away  from  the  land,  find  no  hovel  so  wretched,  where 
her  squalid  form  may  shelter  itself.  Then  Disease,  for  lack  of 
other  victims,  shall  gnaw  her  own  heart,  and  die.  Then  Sin,  if 
she  do  not  die,  shall  lose  half  her  strength.  Until  now,  the 
frenzy  of  hereditary  fever  has  raged  in  the  human  blood,  trans- 
mitted   from  sire  to  son,  and    rekindled,  in    every  generation,  by 


2  126  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

fresh  draughts  of  liquid  flame.  When  that  inward  fire  shall  be 
extinguished,  the  heat  of  passion  cannot  but  grow  cool,  and  war 
—  the  drunkenness  of  nations  —  perhaps  will  cease.  At  least, 
there  will  be  no  war  of  households.  The  husband  and  wife, 
drinking  deep  of  peaceful  joy  —  a  calm  bliss  of  temperate  affec- 
tions—  shall  pass  hand  and  hand  through  life,  and  lie  down,  not 
reluctantly,  at  its  protracted  close.  To  them,  the  past  will  be  no 
turmoil  of  mad  dreams,  nor  the  future  an  eternity  of  such  mo- 
ments as  follow  the  delirium  of  the  drunkard.  Their  dead  faces 
shall  express  what  their  spirits  were,  and  are  to  be,  by  a  ling-er- 
ing  smile  of  memory  and  hope. 

Ahem!  Dry  work,  this  speechifying;  especially  to  an  unprac- 
ticed  orator.  I  never  conceived,  till  now,  what  toil  the  temper- 
ance lecturers  undergo  for  my  sake.  Hereafter,  they  shall  have 
the  business  to  themselves.  Do,  some  kind  Christian,  pump  a 
stroke  or  two,  just  to  wet  my  v/histle.  Thank  you,  sir!  My  dear 
hearers,  when  the  world  shall  have  been  regenerated  by  my  in- 
strumentality, you  will  collect  your  useless  vats  and  liquor  casks 
into  one  great  pile,  and  make  a  bonfire  in  honor  of  the  Town 
Pump.  And  when  I  shall  have  decayed,  like  my  predecessors, 
then,  if  you  revere  my  memory,  let  a  marble  fountain,  richly 
sculptured,  take  my  place  upon  the  spot.  Such  monuments  should 
be  erected  everywhere,  and  inscribed  with  the  names  of  the  dis- 
tinguished champions  of  my  cause.  Now,  listen;  for  something 
very  important  is  to  come  next. 

There  are  two  or  three  honest  friends  of  mine  —  and  true 
friends  I  know  they  are  —  who,  nevertheless,  by  their  fiery  pug- 
nacity in  my  behalf,  do  put  me  in  fearful  hazard  of  a  broken 
nose,  or  even  a  total  overthrow  upon  the  pavement,  and  the  loss 
of  the  treasure  which  I  guard.  I  pray  you,  gentlemen,  let  this 
fault  be  amended.  Is  it  decent,  think  you,  to  get  tipsy  with  zeal 
for  temperance,  and  take  up  the  honorable  cause  of  the  Town 
Pump,  in  the  style  of  a  toper  fighting  for  his  brandy  bottle  ?  Or 
can  the  excellent  qualities  of  cold  water  be  no  otherwise  exem- 
plified than  by  plunging,  slap  dash,  into  hot  water,  and  woefully 
scalding  yourself  and  other  people  ?  Trust  me,  they  may.  In 
the  moral  warfare  which  you  are  to  wage  —  and  indeed  in  the 
whole  conduct  of  your  lives  —  you  cannot  choose  a  better  example 
than  myself,  who  have  never  permitted  the  dust  and  sultry  at- 
mosphere, the    turbulent  and    manifold  disquietudes  of  the  world 


NATHANIEL    HAWTHORNE  2127 

around  me,  to  reach  that  deep  calm  well  of  purity,  which  may- 
be called  my  soul.  And  whenever  I  pour  out  that  soul,  it  is  to 
cool  earth's  fever,  or  cleanse  its  stains. 

One  o'clock!  Nay,  then,  if  the  dinner  bell  begins  to  speak,  I 
may  as  well  hold  my  peace.  Here  comes  a  pretty  young  girl  of 
my  acquaintance,  v,'ith  a  large  stone  pitcher  for  me  to  fill.  May 
she  draw  a  husband,  while  drawing  her  water,  as  Rachel  did  of 
old!  Hold  out  your  vessel,  my  dear!  There  it  is,  full  to  the 
brim;  so  now  run  home,  peeping  at  your  sweet  image  in  the 
pitcher  as  you  go;  and  forget  not,  in  a  glass  of  my  own  liquor, 
to  drink  "  Success  to  the  Town  Pump !  '^ 

Complete.     From  «  Twice-Told  Tales. » 


2128 


WILLIAM   HAZLITT 

(1778-1830) 

Jazlitt  was  born  in  Kent,  England,  April  loth,  1778.  His  tastes 
as  a  young  man  led  him  to  join  the  study  of  metaphysics 
to  that  of  painting.  When  he  went  to  London,  it  was  to 
develop  what  he  conceived  to  be  his  faculties  for  these  antagonistic 
modes  of  intellectual  activity.  Naturally,  he  failed  in  both,  but  he 
established  himself  as  a  literary  critic  and  popular  essayist.  It  is 
said  that  he  had  Leigh  Hunt,  Charles  Lamb,  and  Thomas  Moore  for 
friends,  and  that  he  quarreled  with  them  all.  His  nerves  were  too 
sensitive  for  the  protracted  literary  work  he  attempted  and  the  reac- 
tion from  it  gave  him  the  irritability  which,  as  it  is  said  to  charac- 
terize all  <*  the  race  of  poets,  '*  is  perhaps  no  less  liable  to  attack 
those  who  make  a  profession  of  criticizing  them.  This  Hazlitt  did 
with  such  success  that  though  he  is  under  the  sweeping  condemna- 
tion of  some,  who  accuse  him  of  habitual  «  cramming, '>  others  praise 
him  as  one  of  the  first  to  demonstrate  that  Shakespeare's  apparent 
simplicity  is  due  to  the  highest  art.  He  died  September  i8th,  1830, 
after  a  life  which  was  far  from  happy.  Among  his  most  notable 
works  are  his  «  Lectures  on  English  Poetry,*  "Lectures  on  the  Eng- 
lish Comic  Writers, »  "Characters  of  Shakespeare's  Plays, >*  "Table 
Talk,»  "Original  Essays,"  and  "Political  Essays.*  "Other  men  have 
been  said  to  speak  like  books,*  writes  Richard  Garnett,  "  Hazlitt's 
books  speak  like  men.* 


ON  THE   PERIODICAL   ESSAYISTS 
"The  proper  study  of  mankind  is  man.* 

I  NOW  come  to  speak  of  that  sort  of  writing  which  has  been  so 
successfully  cultivated  in  this  country  by  our  Periodical  Essay- 
ists, and  which  consists  in  applying  the  talents  and  resources 
of  the  mind  to  all  that  mixed  mass  of  human  affairs,  which, 
though  not  included  under  the  head  of  any  regular  art,  science, 
or  profession,  falls  under  the  cognizance  of  the  writer,  ajnd  "  comes 
home    to    the    business    and    bosoms    of    men.^*      Quicquid   agunt 


WILLIAM   HAZLITT  2 1 29 

Jiomines  nostri  farrago  libelli,  is  the  general  motto  of  this  depart- 
ment of  Hterature.  It  does  not  treat  of  minerals  or  fossils,  of  the 
virtues  of  plants,  or  the  influence  of  planets;  it  does  not  meddle 
with  forms  of  belief,  or  systems  of  philosophy,  nor  launch  into 
the  world  of  spiritual  existences;  but  it  makes  familiar  with  the 
world  of  men  and  women,  records  their  actions,  assigns  their 
motives,  exhibits  their  whims,  characterizes  their  pursuits  in  all 
their  singular  and  endless  variety,  ridicules  their  absurdities,  ex- 
poses their  inconsistencies,  "  holds  the  mirror  up  to  nature,  and 
shows  the  very  age  and  body  of  the  time,  its  form  and  pressure'*; 
takes  minutes  of  our  dress,  air,  looks,  words,  thoughts,  and  ac- 
tions; shows  us  what  we  are,  and  what  we  are  not;  plays  the 
whole  game  of  human  life  over  before  us,  and  by  making  us  en- 
lightened spectators  of  its  many-colored  scenes,  enables  us  (if 
possible)  to  become  tolerably  reasonable  agents  in  the  one  in 
which  we  have  to  perform  a  part.  "  The  act  and  practic  part  of 
life  is  thus  made  the  mistress  of  our  theorique.  **  It  is  the  best 
and  most  natural  course  of  study.  It  is  in  morals  and  manners 
what  the  experimental  is  in  natural  philosophy,  as  opposed  to 
the  dogmatical  method.  It  does  not  deal  in  sweeping  clauses  of 
proscription  and  anathema,  but  in  nice  distinctions  and  liberal 
constructions.  It  makes  up  its  general  accounts  from  details,  its 
few  theories  from  many  facts.  It  does  not  try  to  prove  all  black 
or  all  white  as  it  wishes,  but  lays  on  the  intermediate  colors  (and 
most  of  them  not  unpleasing  ones),  as  it  finds  them  blended 
with  ^'  the  web  of  our  life,  which  is  of  a  mingled  yarn,  good  and 
ill  together.'*  It  inquires  what  human  life  is  and  has  been,  to 
show  what  it  ought  to  be.  It  follows  it  into  courts  and  camps, 
into  town  and  country,  into  rustic  sports  or  learned  disputations, 
into  the  various  shades  of  prejudice  or  ignorance,  of  refinement 
or  barbarism,  into  its  private  haunts  or  public  pageants,  into  its 
weaknesses  and  littlenesses,  its  professions  and  its  practices  — 
before  it  pretends  to  distinguish  right  from  wrong,  or  one  thing 
from  another.      How,  indeed,  should  it  do  so  otherwise  ? 

*  Quid  sit  pulchrum,  quid  turpe,  quid  utile,  quid  non, 
Plenius  et  melius  Chrysippo  et  Grantor e  dicit^* 

The  writers  I  speak  of  are,  if   not   moral   philosophers,  moral 
historians,  and  that's  better:    or  if  they  are  both,   they  found  the 
one  character  upon  the  other;   their  premises   precede   their  con- 
VI— 134 


2130  WILLIAM   HAZLITT 

elusions;   and  we  put  faith  in  their  testimony,  for  we  know  that 
it  is  true. 

Montaigne  was  the  first  person  who  in  his  *^  Essays  **  led  the  way 
to  this  kind  of  writing  among  the  Moderns.  The  great  merit 
of  Montaigne  then  was,  that  he  may  be  said  to  have  been  the 
first  who  had  the  courage  to  say  as  an  author  what  he  felt  as  a 
man.  And  as  courage  is  generally  the  effect  of  conscious  strength, 
he  was  probably  led  to  do  so  by  the  richness,  truth,  and  force  of 
his  own  observations  on  books  and  men.  He  was,  in  the  truest 
sense,  a  man  of  original  mind,  that  is,  he  had  the  power  of  look- 
ing at  things  for  himself,  or  as  they  really  were,  instead  of  blindly 
trusting  to,  and  fondly  repeating  what  others  told  him  that  they 
were.  He  got  rid  of  the  go-cart  of  prejudice  and  affectation, 
with  the  learned  lumber  that  follows  at  their  heels,  because  he 
could  do  without  them.  In  taking  up  his  pen  he  did  not  set  up 
for  a  philosopher,  wit,  orator,  or  moralist,  but  he  became  all  these 
by  merely  daring  to  tell  us  whatever  passed  through  his  mind, 
in  its  naked  simplicity  and  force,  that  he  thought  always  worth 
communicating.  He  did  not,  in  the  abstract  character  of  an  au- 
thor, undertake  to  say  all  that  could  be  said  upon  a  subject,  but 
what  in  his  capacity  as  an  inquirer  after  truth  he  happened  to 
know  about  it.  He  was  neither  a  pedant  nor  a  bigot.  He  neither 
supposed  that  he  was  bound  to  know  all  things,  nor  that  all 
things  were  bound  to  conform  to  what  he  had  fancied  or  would 
have  them  to  be.  In  treating  of  men  and  manners,  he  spoke  of 
them  as  he  found  them,  not  according  to  preconceived  notions 
and  abstract  dogmas;  and  he  began  by  teaching  us  what  he  him- 
self was.  In  criticizing  books  he  did  not  compare  them  with 
rules  and  systems,  but  told  us  what  he  saw  to  like  or  dislike  in 
them.  He  did  not  take  his  standard  of  excellence  ^*  according  to 
an  exact  scale  '^  of  Aristotle,  or  fall  out  with  a  work  that  was 
good  for  anything,  because  "  not  one  of  the  angles  at  the  four 
corners  was  a  right  one.^^  He  was,  in  a  word,  the  first  author 
who  was  not  a  bookmaker,  and  who  wrote,  not  to  make  con- 
verts of  others  to  established  creeds  and  prejudices,  but  to  satisfy 
his  own  mind  of  the  truth  of  things.  In  this  respect  we  know 
not  which  to  be  most  charmed  with,  the  author  or  the  man. 
There  is  an  inexpressible  frankness  and  sincerity,  as  well  as 
power,  in  what  he  writes.  There  is  no  attempt  at  imposition  or 
concealment,  no  juggling  tricks  or  solemn  mouthings,  no  labored 
attempts  at   proving   himself   always  in  the  right,  and  everybody 


WILLIAM  HAZLITT  2131 

else  in  the  wrong;  he  says  what  is  uppermost,  lays  open  what 
floats  at  the  top  or  the  bottom  of  his  mind,  and  deserves  Pope's 
character  of  him,  where  he  professes  to  — 

« pour  out  all  as  plain 


As  downright  Shippen,  or  as  old  Montaigne.* 

He  does  not  converse  with  us  like  a  pedagogue  with  his  pupil, 
whom  he  wishes  to  make  as  great  a  blockhead  as  himself,  but 
like  a  philosopher  and  friend  who  has  passed  through  life  with 
thought  and  observation,  and  is  willing  to  enable  others  to  pass 
through  it  with  pleasure  and  profit.  A  writer  of  this  stamp,  I 
confess,  appears  to  me  as  mach  superior  to  a  common  bookworm 
as  a  library  of  real  books  is  superior  to  a  mere  bookcase,  painted 
and  lettered  on  the  outside  with  the  names  of  celebrated  works. 
As  he  was  the  first  to  attempt  this  new  way  of  writing,  so  the 
same  strong  natural  impulse  which  prompted  the  undertaking, 
carried  him  to  the  end  of  his  career.  The  same  force  and  hon- 
esty of  mind  which  urged  him  to  throw  off  the  shackles  of  cus- 
tom and  prejudice  would  enable  him  to  complete  his  triumph 
over  them.  He  has  left  little  for  his  successors  to  achieve  in  the 
way  of  just  and  original  speculation  on  human  life.  Nearly  all 
the  thinking  of  the  two  last  centuries  of  that  kind  which  the 
French  denominate  morale  observatrice  is  to  be  found  in  Mon- 
taigne's "Essays":  there  is  a  germ,  at  least,  and  generally  much 
more.  He  sowed  the  seed  and  cleared  away  the  rubbish,  even 
where  others  have  reaped  the  fruit,  or  cultivated  and  decorated 
the  soil  to  a  greater  degree  of  nicety  and  perfection.  There  is 
no  one  to  whom  the  old  Latin  adage  is  more  applicable  than  to 
Montaigne,  Pcreant  isti  qui  ante  nos  nostra  dixerunt.  There 
has  been  no  new  impulse  given  to  thought  since  his  time.  Among 
the  specimens  of  criticisms  on  authors  which  he  has  left  us,  are 
those  on  Virgil,  Ovid,  and  Boccaccio,  in  the  account  of  books  which 
he  thinks  worth  reading,  or  (which  is  the  same  thing)  which  he 
finds  he  can  read  in  his  old  age,  and  which  may  be  reckoned 
among  the  few  criticisms  which  are  worth  reading  at  any  age. 

Montaigne's  "  Essays**  were  translated  into  English  by  Charles 
Cotton,  who  was  one  of  the  wits  and  poets  of  the  age  of 
Charles  II. ;  and  Lord  Halifax,  one  of  the  noble  critics  of  that 
day,  declared  it  to  be  "  the  book  in  the  world  he  was  the  best 
pleased  with."      This   mode   of   familiar   essay-writing,  free   from 


2  132  WILLIAM  HAZLITT 

the  trammels  of  the  schools  and  the  airs  of  professed  authorship, 
was  successfully  imitated,  about  the  same  time,  by  Cowley  and 
Sir  William  Temple  in  their  miscellaneous  essays,  which  are 
very  agreeable  and  learned  talking  upon  paper.  Lord  Shaftesbury, 
on  the  contrary,  who  aimed  at  the  same  easy,  degag^  mode  of 
communicating  his  thoughts,  to  the  world,  has  quite  spoiled  his 
matter,  which  is  sometimes  valuable,  by  his  manner,  in  which  he 
carries  a  certain  flaunting,  flowery,  figurative,  flirting  style  of  ami- 
cable condescension  to  the  reader,  to  an  excess  more  tantalizing 
than  the  most  starched  and  ridiculous  formality  of  the  age  of 
James  I.  There  is  nothing  so  tormenting  as  the  affectation  of 
ease  and  freedom  from  affectation. 

The  ice  being  thus  thawed,  and  the  barrier  that  kept  authors 
at  a  distance  from  common  sense  and  feeling  broken  through, 
the  transition  was  not  difficult  from  Montaigne  and  his  imitators 
to  our  Periodical  Essayists.  These  last  applied  the  same  unre- 
strained expression  of  their  thoughts  to  the  more  immediate  and 
passing  scenes  of  life,  to  temporary  and  local  matters;  and  in 
order  to  discharge  the  invidious  office  of  Ceiisor  Morum  more 
freely,  and  with  less  responsibility,  assumed  some  fictitious  and 
humorous  disguise,  which,  however,  in  a  degree,  corresponded  to 
their  own  peculiar  habits  and  character.  By  thus  concealing  their 
own  name  and  person  under  the  title  of  the  Tatler,  Specta- 
tor, etc.,  they  were  enabled  to  inform  us  more  fully  of  what 
was  passing  in  the  world,  while  the  dramatic  contrast  and  iron- 
ical point  of  view  to  which  the  whole  is  subjected,  added  a  greater 
liveliness  and  piquancy  to  the  descriptions.  The  philosopher  and 
wit  here  commences  newsmonger,  makes  himself  master  of  *Hhe 
perfect  spy  o'  th'  time,"  and  from  his  various  walks  and  turns 
through  life,  brings  home  little  curious  specimens  of  the  humors, 
opinions,  and  manners  of  his  contemporaries,  as  the  botanist 
brings  home  different  plants  and  weeds,  or  the  mineralogist  dif- 
ferent shells  and  fossils,  to  illustrate  their  several  theories,  and 
be  useful  to  mankind. 

The  first  of  these  papers  that  was  attempted  in  this  country 
was  set  up  by  Steele  in  the  beginning  of  the  last  century;  and 
of  all  our  Periodical  Essayists,  the  Tatler  (for  that  was  the 
name  he  assumed)  has  always  appeared  to  me  the  most  accom- 
plished and  agreeable.  Montaigne,  whom  I  have  proposed  to  con- 
sider as  the  father  of  this  kind  of  personal  authorship  among  the 
Moderns,  in  which  the  reader  is  admitted  behind  the  curtain,  and 


WILLIAM   HAZLITT  2133 

sits  down  with  the  writer  in  his  gown  and  slippers,  was  a  most 
magnanimous  and  undisguised  egotist ;  but  Isaac  BickerstafE,  Esq. , 
was  the  more  disinterested  gossip  of  the  two.  The  French  au- 
thor is  contented  to  describe  the  peculiarities  of  his  own  mind  and 
person,  which  he  does  with  a  most  copious  and  unsparing  hand. 
The  English  journalist  good-naturedly  lets  you  into  the  secret  both 
of  his  own  affairs  and  those  of  his  neighbors.  A  young  lady,  on 
the  other  side  of  Temple  Bar,  cannot  be  seen  at  her  glass  for  half 
a  day  together,  but  Mr.  Bickerstaff  takes  due  notice  of  it ;  and  he 
has  the  first  intelligence  of  the  symptoms  of  the  belle  passion 
appearing  in  any  young  gentleman  at  the  west  end  of  the  town. 
The  departures  and  arrivals  of  widows  with  handsome  jointures, 
either  to  bury  their  grief  in  the  country,  or  to  procure  a  second 
husband  in  town,  are  regularly  recorded  in  his  pages.  He  is 
well  acquainted  with  the  celebrated  beauties  of  the  preceding  age 
at  the  court  of  Charles  II. ;  and  the  old  gentleman  (as  he  feigns 
himself)  often  grows  romantic  in  recounting  "^  the  disastrous  strokes 
which  his  youth  suffered ''  from  the  glances  of  their  bright  eyes, 
and  their  unaccountable  caprices.  In  particular  he  dwells  with  a 
secret  satisfaction  on  the  recollection  of  one  of  his  mistresses, 
who  left  him  for  a  richer  rival,  and  whose  constant  reproach  to 
her  husband,  on  occasion  of  any  quarrel  between  them,  was  "  I, 
that  might  have  married  the  famous  Mr.  Bickerstaff,  to  be  treated 
in  this  manner!^'  The  club  at  the  Trumpet  consists  of  a  set  of 
persons  almost  as  well  worth  knowing  as  himself.  The  caval- 
cade of  the  justice  of  the  peace,  the  knight  of  the  shire,  the 
country  squire,  and  the  young  gentleman,  his  nephew,  who  came 
to  wait  on  him  at  his  chambers,  in  such  form  and  ceremony,  seem 
not  to  have  settled  the  order  of  their  precedence  to  this  hour ;  and 
I  should  hope  that  the  upholsterer  and  his  companions,  who  used 
to  sun  themselves  in  the  Green  Park,  and  who  broke  their  rest 
and  fortunes  to  maintain  the  balance  of  power  in  Europe,  stand 
as  fair  a  chance  for  immortality  as  some  modern  politicians.  Mr. 
Bickerstaff  himself  is  a  gentleman  and  a  scholar,  a  humorist  and 
a  man  of  the  world,  with  a  great  deal  of  nice,  easy  na'ivctd  about 
him.  If  he  walks  out  and  is  caught  in  a  shower  of  rain,  he  makes 
amends  for  this  unlucky  accident  by  a  criticism  on  the  shower  in 
Virgil,  and  concludes  with  a  burlesque  copy  of  verses  on  a  city 
showeY.  He  entertains  us,  when  he  dates  from  his  own  apart- 
ment, with  a  quotation  from  Plutarch,  or  a  moral  reflection;  from 
the    Grecian    coffeehouse    with   politics,    and   from   Will's,    or  the 


2134  WILLIAM  HAZLITT 

Temple,  with  the  poets  and  players,  the  beaux  and  men  of  wit 
and  pleasure  about  town.  In  reading  the  pages  of  the  Tatler, 
we  seem  as  if  suddenly  carried  back  to  the  age  of  Queen  Anne, 
of  toupees  and  full-bottomed  periwigs.  The  whole  appearance  of 
our  dress  and  manners  undergoes  a  delightful  metamorphosis. 
We  are  surprised  with  the  rustling  of  hoops,  and  the  glittering 
of  paste  buckles.  The  beaux  and  the  belles  are  of  a  quite  dif- 
ferent species  from  what  they  are  at  present;  we  distinguish  the 
dappers,  the  smarts,  and  the  pretty  fellows,  as  they  pass  by  Mr. 
Lily's  shop  windows  in  the  Strand;  we  are  introduced  to  Better- 
ton  and  Mrs,  Oldfield  behind  the  scenes;  are  made  familiar  with 
the  persons  and  performances  of  Mr.  Penkethman  and  Mr.  Bul- 
lock; we  listen  to  a  dispute  at  a  tavern  on  the  merits  of  the  Duke 
of  Marlborough,  or  Marshal  Turenne;  or  are  present  at  the  first 
rehearsal  of  a  play  by  Vanbrugh,  or  the  reading  of  a  new  poem 
by  Mr.  Pope.  The  privilege  of  thus  virtually  transporting  our- 
selves to  past  times  is  even  greater  than  that  of  visiting  distant 
places  in  reality.  London  a  hundred  years  ago  would  be  much 
better  worth  seeing  than  Paris  at  the  present  moment. 

It  may  be  said  that  all  this  is  to  be  found,  in  the  same  or  a 
greater  degree,  in  the  Spectator.  For  myself,  I  do  not  think 
so;  or,  at  least,  there  is  in  the  last  work  a  much  greater  propor- 
tion of  commonplace  matter.  I  have  on  this  account  always 
preferred  the  Tatler  to  the  Spectator.  Whether  it  is  owing 
to  my  having  been  earlier  or  better  acquainted  with  the  one 
than  the  other,  my  pleasure  in  reading  these  two  admirable  works 
is  not  at  all  in  proportion  to  their  comparative  reputation.  The 
Tatler  contains  only  half  the  number  of  volumes,  and,  I  will 
venture  to  say,  at  least  an  equal  quantity  of  sterling  wit  and 
sense.  ^^  The  first  sprightly  runnings  ^^  are  there  —  it  has  more 
of  the  original  spirit,  more  of  the  freshness  and  stamp  of  nature. 
The  indications  of  character  and  strokes  of  humor  are  more  true 
and  frequent;  the  reflections  that  suggest  themselves  arise  more 
from  the  occasion,  and  are  less  spun  out  into  regular  disserta- 
tions. They  are  more  like  the  remarks  which  occur  in  sensible 
conversation,  and  less  like  a  lecture.  Something  is  left  to  the 
understanding  of  the  reader.  Steele  seems  to  have  gone  into  his 
closet  chiefly  to  set  down  what  he  observed  out  of  doors.  Addi- 
son seems  to  have  spent  most  of  his  time  in  his  study,  and  to 
have  spun  out  and  wire-drawn  the  hints,  which  he  borrowed  from 
Steele,  or  took  from  nature,  to  the  utmost.     I  am  far  from  wish- 


WILLIAM  HAZLITT  2135 

ing  to  depreciate  Addison's  talents,  but  I  am  anxious  to  do  jus- 
tice to  Steele,  who  was,  I  think,  upon  the  whole,  a  less  artificial 
and  more  original  writer.  The  humorous  descriptions  of  Steele 
resemble  loose  sketches,  or  fragments  of  a  comedy;  those  of 
Addison  are  rather  comments,  or  ingenious  paraphrases,  on  the 
genuine  text.  The  characters  of  the  club  not  only  in  the  Tat- 
ler,  but  in  the  Spectator,  were  drawn  by  Steele.  That  of  Sir 
Roger  de  Coverley  is  among  the  number.  Addison  has,  how- 
ever, gained  himself  immortal  honor  by  his  manner  of  filling  up 
this  last  character.  Who  is  there  that  can  forget,  or  be  insen- 
sible to,  the  inimitable,  nameless  graces,  and  varied  traits  of 
nature  and  of  old  English  character,  in  it  —  to  his  unpretending 
virtues  and  amiable  weaknesses — to  his  modesty,  generosity,  hos- 
pitality, and  eccentric  whims  —  to  the  respect  of  his  neighbors, 
and  the  affection  of  his  domestics  —  to  his  wayward,  hopeless, 
secret  passion  for  his  fair  enemy,  the  widow,  in  which  there  is 
more  of  real  romance  and  true  delicacy  than  in  a  thousand  tales 
of  knight-errantry  —  (we  perceive  the  hectic  flush  of  his  cheek, 
the  faltering  of  his  tongue  in  speaking  of  her  bewitching  airs 
and  "  the  Whiteness  of  her  hand  **)  —  to  the  havoc  he  makes 
among  the  game  in  his  neighborhood  —  to  his  speech  from  the 
bench,  to  show  the  Spectator  what  is  thought  of  him  in  the 
country  —  to  his  unwillingness  to  be  put  up  as  a  signpost,  and  his 
having  his  own  likeness  turned  into  the  Saracen's  head  —  to  his 
gentle  reproof  of  the  baggage  of  a  gipsy  that  tells  him  <*he  has 
a  widow  in  his  line  of  life'* — to  his  doubts  as  to  the  existence 
of  witchcraft,  and  protection  of  reputed  witches  —  to  his  account 
of  the  family  pictures,  and  his  choice  of  a  chaplain  —  to  his  fall- 
ing asleep  at  church,  and  his  reproof  of  John  Williams,  as  soon 
as  he  recovered  from  his  nap,  for  talking  in  sermon  time.  The 
characters-  of  Will  Wimble  and  Will  Honeycomb  are  not  a  whit 
behind  their  friend.  Sir  Roger,  in  delicacy  and  felicity.  The  de- 
lightful simplicity  and  good-humored  officiousness  in  the  one  are 
set  off  by  the  graceful  affectation  and  courtly  pretension  in  the 
other.  How  long  since  I  first  became  acquainted  with  these  two 
characters  in  the  Spectator!  What  old-fashioned  friends  they 
seem,  and  yet  I  am  not  tired  of  them,  like  so  many  other  friends, 
nor  they  of  me !  Plow  airy  these  abstractions  of  the  poet's  pen 
stream  over  the  dawn  of  our  acquaintance  with  human  life!  How 
they  glance  their  fairest  colors  on  the  prospect  before  us!  How 
pure  they  remain  in  it  to  the  last,   like  the  rainbow  in  the  even- 


2136  WILLIAM  HAZLITT 

ing  cloud,  which  the  rude  hand  of  time  can  neither  soil  nor  dis- 
sipate! What  a  pity  that  we  cannot  find  the  reality,  and  yet  if 
we  did,  the  dream  would  be  over.  I  once  thought  I  knew  a 
Will  Wimble,  and  a  Will  Honeycomb,  but  they  turned  out  but 
indifferently:  the  originals  in  the  Spectator  still  read  word  for 
word,  the  same  that  they  always  did.  We  have  only  to  turn  to 
the  page,  and  find  them  where  we  left  them!  Many  of  the 
most  exquisite  pieces  in  the  Tatler,  it  is  to  be  observed,  are 
Addison's,  as  the  ^^  Court  of  Honor  ^^  and  the  "  Personification  of 
Musical  Instruments,'^  with  almost  all  those  papers  that  form 
regular  sets  or  series.  I  do  not  know  whether  the  picture  of  the 
family  of  an  old  college  acquaintance,  in  the  Tatler,  where 
the  children  run  to  let  Mr.  Bickerstaff  in  at  the  door,  and  where 
the  one  that  loses  the  race  that  way  turns  back  to  tell  the 
father  that  he  is  come;  with  the  nice  gradation  of  incredulity  in 
the  little  boy,  who  is  got  into  "Guy  of  Warwick,'*  and  the  "  Seven 
Champions,''  and  who  shakes  his  head  at  the  improbability  of 
"^sop's  Fables,"  is  Steele's  or  Addison's,  though  I  believe  it  be- 
longs to  the  former.  The  account  of  the  two  sisters,  one  of 
whom  held  up  her  head  higher  than  ordinary,  from  having  on  a 
pair  of  flowered  garters,  and  that  of  the  married  lady  who  com- 
plained to  the  Tatler  of  the  neglect  of  her  husband,  with  her 
answers  to  some  home  questions  that  were  put  to  her,  are 
unquestionably  Steele's.  If  the  Tatler  is  not  inferior  to  the 
Spectator  as  a  record  of  manners  and  character,  it  is  very  su- 
perior to  it  in  the  interest  of  many  of  the  stories.  Several  of 
the  incidents  related  there  by  Steele  have  never  been  surpassed 
in  the  heartrending  pathos  of  private  distress.  I  might  refer  to 
those  of  the  lover  and  his  mistress,  when  the  theatre,  in  which 
they  were,  caught  fire;  of  the  bridegroom,  who  by  accident  kills 
his  bride  on  the  day  of  their  marriage;  the  story  of  Mr.  Eustace 
and  his  wife;  and  the  fine  dream  about  his  own  mistress  when  a 
youth.  What  has  given  its  superior  reputation  to  the  Specta- 
tor is  the  greater  gravity  of  its  pretensions,  its  moral  disserta- 
tions and  critical  reasonings,  by  which  I  confess  myself  less 
edified  than  by  other  things,  which  are  thought  more  lightly  of. 
Systems  and  opinions  change,  but  nature  is  always  true.  It  is 
the  extremely  moral  and  didactic  tone  of  the  Spectator  which 
makes  us  apt  to  think  of  Addison  (according  to  Mandeville's 
sarcasm)  as  "  a  parson  in  a  tiewig.  "  Many  of  his  moral  essays 
are,    however,    exquisitely    beautiful    and    happy.      Such    are    the 


WILLIAM  HAZLITT  2137 

reflections  on  cheerfulness,  those  in  Westminster  Abbey,  on  the 
Royal  Exchange,  and  particularly  some  very  affecting  ones  on 
the  death  of  a  young  lady  in  the  fourth  volume.  These,  it  must 
be  allowed,  are  the  perfection  of  elegant  sermonizing.  His  crit- 
ical essays  are  not  so  good.  I  prefer  Steele's  occasional  selection 
of  beautiful  poetical  passages,  without  any  affectation  of  analyz- 
ing their  beauties,  to  Addison's  fine-spun  theories.  The  best  crit- 
icism in  the  Spectator,  that  on  the  Cartoons  of  Raphael,  of 
which  Mr.  Fuseli  has  availed  himself  with  great  spirit  in  his 
lectures,  is  by  Steele.  I  owed  this  acknowledgment  to  a  writer 
who  has  so  often  put  me  in  good-humor  with  myself,  and  every- 
thing about  me,  when  few  things  else  could,  and  when  the 
tomes  of  casuistry  and  ecclesiastical  history,  with  which  the  little 
duodecimo  volumes  of  the  Tatler  were  overwhelmed  and  sur- 
rounded, in  the  only  library  to  which  I  had  access  when  a  boy, 
had  tried  their  tranquillizing  effects  upon  me  in  vain.  I  had 
not  long  ago  in  my  hands,  by  favor  of  a  friend,  an  original  copy 
of  the  quarto  edition  of  the  Tatler,  with  a  list  of  the  subscrib- 
ers. It  is  curious  to  see  some  names  there  which ,  we  should 
hardly  think  of  (that  of  Sir  Isaac  Newton  is  among  them),  and 
also  to  observe  the  degree  of  interest  excited  by  those  of  the 
different  persons,  which  is  not  determined  according  to  the  rules 
of  the  Herald's  College.  One  literary  name  lasts  as  long  as  a 
whole  race  of  heroes  and  their  descendants!  The  Guardian, 
which  followed  the  Spectator,  was,  as  may  be  supposed,  inferior 
to  it. 

The  dramatic  and  conversational  turn  which  forms  the  dis- 
tinguishing feature  and  greatest  charm  of  the  Spectator  and 
Tatler  is  quite  lost  in  the  Rambler,  by  Dr.  Johnson.  There 
is  no  reflected  light  thrown  on  human  life  from  an  assumed  char- 
acter, nor  any  direct  one  from  a  display  of  the  author's  own. 
The  Tatler  and  Spectator  are,  as  it  were,  made  up  of  notes 
and  memorandums  of  the  events  and  incidents  of  the  day,  with 
finished  studies  after  nature,  and  characters  fresh  from  the  life, 
which  the  writer  moralizes  upon,  and  turns  to  account  as  they 
come  before  him.  The  Rambler  is  a  collection  of  moral  es- 
says, or  scholastic  theses,  written  on  set  subjects,  and  of  which 
the  individual  characters  and  incidents  are  merely  artificial  illus- 
trations, brought  in  to  give  a  pretended  relief  to  the  dryness  of 
didactic  discussion.  The  Rambler  is  a  splendid  and  imposing 
commonplace    book  of  general  topics,  and  rhetorical  declamation 


2138  WILLIAM  HAZLITT 

on  the  conduct  and  business  of  human  life.  In  this  sense,  there 
is  hardly  a  reflection  that  had  been  suggested  on  such  subjects 
which  is  not  to  be  found  in  this  celebrated  work,  and  there  is, 
perhaps,  hardly  a  reflection  to  be  found  in  it  which  had  not  been 
already  suggested  and  developed  by  some  other  author,  or  in  the 
common  course  of  conversation.  The  mass  of  intellectual  wealth 
here  heaped  together  is  immense,  but  it  is  rather  the  result  of 
gradual  accumulation,  the  produce  of  the  general  intellect,  labor- 
ing in  the  mine  of  knowledge  and  reflection,  than  dug  out  of  the 
quarry,  and  dragged  into  the  light  by  the  industry  and  sagacity 
of  a  single  mind.  I  am  not  here  saying  that  Dr.  Johnson  was  a 
man  without  originality,  compared  with  the  ordinary  run  of  men's 
minds,  but  he  was  not  a  man  of  original  thought  or  genius,  in 
the  sense  in  which  Montaigne  or  Lord  Bacon  was.  He  opened 
no  new  vein  of  precious  ore,  nor  did  he  light  upon  any  single 
pebbles  of  uncommon  size  and  unrivaled  lustre.  We  seldom 
meet  with  anything  to  "  give  us  pause  *^ ;  he  does  not  set  us 
thinking  for  the  first  time.  His  reflections  present  themselves 
like  reminiscences;  do  not  disturb  the  ordinary  march  of  our 
thoughts;  arrest  our  attention  by  the  stateliness  of  their  appear- 
ance, and  the  costliness  of  their  garb,  but  pass  on  and  mingle 
with  the  throng  of  our  impressions.  After  closing  the  volumes 
of  the  Rambler,  there  is  nothing  that  we  remember  as  a  new 
truth  gained  to  the  mind,  nothing  indelibly  stamped  upon  the 
memory;  nor  is  there  any  passage  that  we  wish  to  turn  to  as 
embodying  any  known  principle  or  observation,  with  such  force 
and  beauty  that  justice  can  only  be  done  to  the  idea  in  the  au- 
thor's own  words.  Such,  for  instance,  are  many  of  the  passages 
to  be  found  in  Burke,  which  shine  by  their  own  light,  belong  to 
no  class,  have  neither  equal  nor  counterpart,  and  of  which  we 
say  that  no  one  but  the  author  could  have  written  them !  There 
is  neither  the  same  boldness  of  design  nor  mastery  of  execution 
in  Johnson.  In  the  one,  the  spark  of  genius  seems  to  have  met 
with  its  congenial  matter;  the  shaft  is  sped:  the  forked  lightning 
dresses  up  the  face  of  nature  in  ghastly  smiles,  and  the  loud 
thunder  rolls  far  away  from  the  ruin  that  is  made.  Dr.  John- 
son's style,  on  the  contrary,  resembles  rather  the  rumbling  of 
mimic  thunder  at  one  of  our  theatres;  and  the  light  he  throws 
upon  a  subject  is  like  the  dazzling  effect  of  phosphorus,  or  an 
ignis  fatuus  of  words.  There  is  a  wide  difference,  however,  be- 
tween perfect  originality  and  perfect  commonplace:  neither  ideas 


WILLIAM  HAZLITT  2 1 39 


nor  expressions  are  trite  or  vulgar  because  they  are  not  quite 
new.  They  are  valuable,  and  ought  to  be  repeated,  if  they  have 
not  become  quite  common;  and  Johnson's  style,  both  of  reasoning 
and  imagery,  holds  the  middle  rank  between  startling  novelty  and 
vapid  commonplace.  Johnson  has  as  much  originality  of  thinking 
as  Addison;  but  then  he  wants  his  familiarity  of  illustration, 
knowledge  of  character,  and  delightful  humor.  What  most  dis- 
tinguishes Dr.  Johnson  from  other  writers  is  the  pomp  and  uni- 
formity of  his  style.  All  his  periods  are  cast  in  the  same  mold, 
are  of  the  same  size  and  shape,  and  consequently  have  little  fit- 
ness to  the  variety  of  things  he  professes  to  treat  of.  His  sub- 
jects are  familiar,  but  the  author  is  always  upon  stilts.  He  has 
neither  ease  nor  simplicity,  and  his  efforts  at  playfulness,  in  part, 
remind  one  of  the  lines  in  Milton :  — 

« The  elephant 


To  make  them  sport  wreath'd  his  proboscis  lithe.® 

His  "Letters  from  Correspondents,'^  in  particular,  are  more 
pompous  and  unwieldy  than  what  he  writes  in  his  own  person. 
This  want  of  relaxation  and  variety  of  manner,  has,  I  think,  after 
the  first  effects  of  novelty  and  surprise  were  over,  been  prejudicial 
to  the  matter.  It  takes  from  the  general  power,  not  only  to  please, 
but  to  instruct.  The  monotony  of  style  produces  an  apparent 
monotony  of  ideas.  What  is  really  striking  and  valuable  is  lost 
in  the  vain  ostentation  and  circumlocution  of  the  expression;  foi 
when  we  find  the  same  pains  and  pomp  of  diction  bestowed  upoh. 
the  most  trifling  as  upon  the  most  important  parts  of  a  sentence 
or  discourse,  we  grow  tired  of  distinguishing  between  pretension 
and  reality,  and  are  disposed  to  confound  the  tinsel  and  bombast 
of  the  phraseology  with  want  of  weight  in  the  thoughts.  Thus, 
from  the  imposing  and  oracular  nature  of  the  style,  people  are 
tempted  at  first  to  imagine  that  our  author's  speculations  are  all 
wisdom  and  profundity:  till  having  found  out  their  mistake  in 
some  instances,  they  suppose  that  there  is  nothing  but  common- 
place in  them,  concealed  under  verbiage  and  pedantry;  and  in 
both  they  are  wrong.  The  fault  of  Dr.  Johnson's  style  is,  that 
it  reduces  all  things  to  the  same  artificial  and  unmeaning  level.  It 
destroys  all  shades  of  difference,  the  association  between  words 
and  things.  It  is  a  perpetual  paradox  and  innovation.  He  con- 
descends to  the  familiar  till  we  are  ashamed  of  our  interest  in  it; 


2I40  WILLIAM  HAZLITT 

he  expands  the  little  till  it  looks  big.  **  If  he  were  to  write  a 
fable  of  little  fishes,"  as  Goldsmith  said  of  him,  <*he  would  make 
them  speak  like  great  whales.*^  We  can  no  more  distinguish  the 
most  familiar  objects  in  his  description  of  them  than  we  can  a 
well-known  face  under  a  huge  painted  mask.  The  structure  of 
his  sentences,  which  was  his  own  invention,  and  which  has  been 
generally  imitated  since  his  time,  is  a  species  of  rhyming  in  prose, 
where  one  clause  answers  to  another  in  measure  and  quantity, 
like  the  tagging  of  syllables  at  the  end  of  a  verse ;  the  close  of  the 
period  follows  as  mechanically  as  the  oscillation  of  a  pendulum, 
the  sense  is  balanced  with  the  sound;  each  sentence,  revolving 
round  its  centre  of  gravity,  is  contained  within  itself  like  a  coup- 
let, and  each  paragraph  forms  itself  into  a  stanza.  Dr.  Johnson 
is  also  a  complete  balance-master  in  the  topics  of  morality.  He 
never  encourages  hope,  but  he  counteracts  it  by  fear;  he  never 
elicits  a  truth,  but  he  suggests  some  objection  in  answer  to  it. 
He  seizes  and  alternately  quits  the  clew  of  reason,  lest  it  should 
involve  him  in  the  labyrinths  of  endless  error:  he  wants  confidence 
in  himself  and  his  fellows.  He  dares  not  trust  himself  with  the 
immediate  impressions  of  things,  for  fear  of  compromising  his 
dignity;  or  follow  them  into  their  consequences,  for  fear  of  com- 
mitting his  prejudices.  His  timidity  is  the  result,  not  of  ignorance, 
but  of  morbid  apprehension.  <<  He  turns  the  great  circle,  and  is 
still  at  home."  No  advance  is  made  by  his  writings  in  any  sen- 
timent, or  mode  of  reasoning.  Out  of  the  pale  of  established 
authority  and  received  dogmas,  all  is  skeptical,  loose,  and  desul- 
tory: he  seems  in  imagination  to  strengthen  the  dominion  of 
prejudice,  as  he  weakens  and  dissipates  that  of  reason;  and  round 
the  rock  of  faith  and  power,  on  the  edge  of  which  he  slumbers 
blindfold  and  uneasy,  the  waves  and  billows  of  uncertain  and 
dangerous  opinion  roar  and  heave  forevermore.  His  "  Rasselas  " 
is  the  most  melancholy  and  debilitating  moral  speculation  that 
ever  was  put  forth.  Doubtful  of  the  faculties  of  his  mind,  as  of 
his  organs  of  vision,  Johnson  trusted  only  to  his  feelings  and  his 
fears.  He  cultivated  a  belief  in  witches  as  an  outguard  to  the 
evidences  of  religion;  and  abused  Milton,  and  patronized  Lauder, 
in  spite  of  his  aversion  to  his  countrymen,  as  a  step  to  secure 
the  existing  establishment  in  Church  and  State.  This  was  neither 
right  feeling  nor  sound  logic. 

The   most   triumphant  record  of    the   talents  and  character  of 
Johnson  is  to  be  found  in    Boswell's  life  of  him.      The  man  was 


WILLIAM  HAZLITT  2 141 

superior  to  the  author.  When  he  threw  aside  his  pen,  which  he 
regarded  as  an  encumbrance,  he  became  not  only  learned  and 
thoughtful,  but  acute,  witty,  humorous,  natural,  honest ;  hearty  and 
determined,  "  the  king  of  good  fellows  and  wale  of  old  men.  '* 
There  are  as  many  smart  repartees,  profound  remarks,  and  keen 
invectives  to  be  found  in  Boswell's  "inventory  of  all  he  said,*^  as 
are  recorded  of  any  celebrated  man.  The  life  and  dramatic  play 
of  his  conversation  forms  a  contrast  to  his  written  works.  His 
natural  powers  and  undisguised  opinions  were  called  out  in  con- 
vivial intercourse.  In  public  he  practiced  with  the  foils;  in  pri- 
vate, he  unsheathed  the  sword  of  controversy,  and  it  was  "  the 
Ebro's  temper.  *^  The  eagerness  of  opposition  roused  him  from 
his  natural  sluggishness  and  acquired  timidity;  he  returned  blow 
for  blow;  and  whether  the  trial  were  of  argument  or  wit,  none 
of  his  rivals  could  boast  much  of  the  encounter.  Burke  seems 
to  have  been  the  only  person  who  had  a  chance  with  him;  and 
it  is  the  unpardonable  sin  of  Boswell's  work,  that  he  has  pur- 
posely omitted  their  combats  of  strength  and  skill.  Goldsmith 
asked,  **  Does  he  wind  into  a  subject  like  a  serpent,  as  Burke 
does  ?  *^  And  when  exhausted  with  sickness,  he  himself  said,  "  If 
that  fellow  Burke  were  here  now,  he  would  kill  me.'*  It  is  to 
be  observed  that  Johnson's  colloquial  style  was  as  blunt,  direct, 
and  downright,  as  his  style  of  studied  composition  was  involved 
and  circuitious.  As  when  Topham,  Beauclerc,  and  Langton  knocked 
him  up  at  his  chambers  at  three  in  the  morning,  and  he  came 
to  the  door  with  the  poker  in  his  hand,  but,  seeing  them,  ex- 
claimed, "What!  is  it  you,  my  lads?  then  I'll  have  a  frisk  with 
you !  '*  and  he  afterwards  reproaches  Langton,  who  was  a  literary 
milksop,  for  leaving  them  to  go  to  an  engagement  *<  with  some 
iin-idcad  girls.*'  What  words  to  come  from  the  mouth  of  the 
great  moralist  and  lexicographer!  His  good  deeds  were  as  many 
as  his  good  sayings.  His  domestic  habits,  his  tenderness  to  serv- 
ants, and  readiness  to  oblige  his  friends;  the  quantity  of  strong 
tea  that  he  drank  to  keep  down  sad  thoughts;  his  many  labors 
reluctantly  begun,  and  irresolutely  laid  aside ;  his  honest  acknowl- 
edgment of  his  own,  and  indulgence  to  the  weaknesses  of  others; 
his  throwing  himself  back  in  the  post  chaise  with  Boswell,  and 
saying,  "  Now  I  think  I  am  a  good-humored  fellow,"  though  no- 
body thought  him  so,  and  yet  he  was;  his  quitting  the  society  of 
Garrick  and  his  actresses,  and  his  reason  for  it;  his  dining  with 
Wilkes,  and  his  kindness  to  Goldsmith;  his  sitting  with  the  young 


tI42 


WILLIAM  HAZLITT 


ladies  on  his  knee  at  the  Mitre,  to  give  them  good  advice,  in 
which  situation,  if  not  explained,  he  might  be  taken  for  FalstafiE ; 
and  last  and  noblest,  his  carrying  the  unfortunate  victim  of  dis- 
ease and  dissipation  on  his  back  up  through  Fleet  Street  (an  act 
which  realizes  the  parable  of  the  good  Samaritan)  — all  these, 
and  innumerable  others,  endear  him  to  the  reader,  and  must  be 
remembered  to  his  lasting  honor.  He  had  faults,  but  they  lie 
buried  with  him.  He  had  his  prejudices  and  his  intolerant  feel- 
ings, but  he  suffered  enough  in  the  conflict  of  his  own  mind  with 
them;  for  if  no  man  can  be  happy  in  the  free  exercise  of  his 
reason,  no  wise  man  can  be  happy  without  it.  His  were  not 
time-serving,  heartless,  hypocritical  prejudices;  but  deep,  inwoven, 
not  to  be  rooted  out  but  with  life  and  hope,  which  he  found  from 
old  habit  necessary  to  his  own  peace  of  mind,  and  thought  so  to 
the  peace  of  mankind.  I  do  not  hate,  but  love  him  lor  them. 
They  were  between  himself  and  his  conscience,  and  should  be 
left  to  that  higher  tribunal 

"  Where  they  in  trembling  hope  repose. 
The  bosom  of  his  father  and  his  God.** 

In  a  word,  he  has  left  behind  him  few  wiser  or  better  men. 

The  herd  of  his  imitators  showed  what  he  was  by  their  dis- 
proportionate effects.  The  Periodical  Essayists  that  succeeded . 
the  Rambler  are,  and  deserve  to  be,  little  read  at  present. 
The  Adventurer,  by  Hawkesworth,  is  completely  trite  and  vapid, 
aping  all  the  faults  of  Johnson's  style,  without  anything  to  atone 
for  them.  The  sentences  are  often  absolutely  unmeaning;  and 
one-half  of  each  might  regularly  be  left  blank.  The  World 
and  Connoisseur,  which  followed,  are  a  little  better;  and  in  the 
last  of  these  there  is  one  good  idea,  that  of  a  man  in  indifferent 
health  who  judges  of  every  one's  title  to  respect  from  their  pos- 
session of  this  blessing,  and  bows  to  a  sturdy  beggar  with  sound 
limbs  and  a  florid  complexion,  while  he  turns  his  back  upon  a 
lord  who  is  a  valetudinarian. 

Goldsmith's  Citizen  of  the  World,  like  all  his  works,  bears 
the  stamp  of  the  author's  mind.  It  does  not  "  go  about  to  cozen 
reputation  without  the  stamp  of  merit.**  He  is  more  observing, 
more  original,  more  natural  and  picturesque  than  Johnson.  His 
work  is  written  on  the  model  of  the  "Persian  Letters,**  and  con- 
trives  to   give  an   abstracted   and   somewhat   perplexing   view  of 


WILLIAM  HAZLITT  2 1 43 

things,  by  opposing  foreign  prepossessions  to  our  own,  and  thus 
stripping  objects  of  their  customary  disguises.     Whether  truth  is 
elicited  in  this   collision  of  contrary  absurdities,   I  do  not   know; 
but  I  confess  the  process  is   too  ambiguous  and   full  of  intricacy 
to  be  very  amusing  to  my  plain  understanding.      For  light  sum- 
mer reading  it  is  like   walking  in  a  garden  full  of  traps  and  pit- 
falls.    It  necessarily  gives  rise  to  paradoxes,  and  there  are  some 
very  bold  ones  in  the  <*  Essays,"  which  would   subject  an  author 
less   established   to   no   very    agreeable    sort  of  censura   literaria. 
Thus   the   Chinese   philosopher  exclaims  very  unadvisedly:    ^*  The 
bonzes  and   priests  of  all   religions    keep  up  superstition   and  im- 
posture; all  reformations  begin  with  the  laity.  *^     Goldsmith,  how- 
ever, was  stanch  in  his  practical  creed,   and  might  bolt  speculative 
extravagances  with   impunity.      There  is  a    striking  difference  in 
this   respect   between  him   and  Addison,  who,  if  he  attacked  au- 
thority, took   care  to  have  common  sense  on  his  side,  and  never 
hazarded  anything  offensive    to   the    feelings  of  others,  or  on  the 
strength  of  his   own   discretional    opinion.      There   is  another  in- 
convenience  in   this   assumption  of  an  exotic  character  and   tone 
of  sentiment,  that  it  produces  an  inconsistency  between  the  knowl- 
edge which  the  individual  has  time  to  acquire  and  which  the  au- 
thor is  bound   to  communicate.      Thus   the  Chinese  has  not  been 
in    England   three    days  before   he    is    acquainted    with    the    char- 
acters of   the   three   countries   which   compose   this  kingdom,  and 
describes  them  to  his  friend  at  Canton  by  extracts  from  the  news- 
papers of  each  metropolis.     The  nationality  of  Scotchmen  is  thus 
ridiculed :  — 

Edinburgh  —  We  are  positive  when  we  say  that  Sanders  Macregor, 
lately  executed  for  horse  stealing,  is  not  a  native  of  Scotland,  but 
born  at  Carrickfergus. 

Now  this  is  very  good;  but  how  should  our  Chinese  philoso- 
pher find  it  out  by  instinct  ?  Beau  Tibbs,  a  prominent  character 
in  this  little  work,  is  the  best  comic  sketch  since  the  time  of  Ad- 
dison; unrivaled  in  his  finery,  his  vanity,  and  his  poverty. 

I  have  only  to  mention  the  names  of  the  Lounger  and  the 
Mirror,  which  are  ranked  by  the  author's  admirers  with  Sterne 
for  sentiment,  and  with  Addison  for  humor.  I  shall  not  enter 
into  that;  but  I  know  that  the  story  of  "La  Roche"  is  not  like 
the  story  of  "  Le  Fevre,"  nor  one  hundredth  part  so  good.  Do  I 
say  this  from  prejudice  to  the  author?     No;    for  I  have  read  his 


2  144 


WILLIAM  HAZLITT 


novels.  Of  **  The  Man  of  the  World  '^  I  cannot  think  so  favor- 
ably as  some  others,  nor  shall  I  here  dwell  on  the  picturesque 
and  romantic  beauties  of  ^*  Julia  de  Roubigne,  *^  the  early  favorite 
of  the  author  of  ^^  Rosamond  Gray  ^^ ;  but  of  the  <^  Man  of  Feel- 
ing* I  would  speak  with  grateful  recollections,  nor  is  it  possible 
to  forget  the  sensitive,  irresolute,  interesting  Harley,  and  that  lone 
figure  of  Miss  Walton  in  it,  that  floats  in  the  horizon,  dim  and 
ethereal,  the  daydream  of  her  lover's  youthful  fancy, —  better,  far 
better,  than  all  the  realities  of  life! 

Complete.     Letter  V.  on  <<  English 
Literature. » 


2143 


GEORG  WILHELM   FRIEDRICH   HEGEL 

(I77c^i83i) 

Iegel  had  all  the  qualities  necessary  to  make  him  one  of  the 
greatest  -nhilosophers  since  Plato.  The  one  quality  in  which 
he  was  most  deficient  as  a  writer  every  essayist  must  have 
if  he  is  not  to  lose  the  essay  in  the  treatise.  This  is  the  power  of 
self-limitation  which  enables  him  to  separate  his  subject  from  the 
universal  whole  and  treat  it  in  its  own  completeness.  This  quality. 
Bacon,  as  great  in  another  way  as  Hegel,  had  in  an  eminent  degree. 
But  Hegel's  mind  was  differently  constituted.  He  does  not  amplify 
by  diffusing  his  ideas,  but  by  vast  generalizations  supported  by  con- 
tinuity of  details  which  accumulate  until  the  reader  is  in  danger  of 
being  so  overwhelmed  by  them  that  he  will  lose  sight  of  the  govern- 
ing thought.  If  technically  Hegel  is  hardly  to  be  classed  among  es- 
sayists, he  had  a  vision  of  truth  so  clear  that  he  cannot  be  passed 
over  because  of  a  mere  matter  of  form.  The  idea  that  the  spiritual 
or  supernatural  object  of  human  society  in  all  its  forms,  and  of  all 
the  forces  of  the  visible  universe,  is  to  develop  individuality  and  to 
multiply  to  the  utmost  possible  extent  individuals  of  the  highest  pos- 
sible fitness. — this  thought,  which  if  it  be  not  wholly  Hegel's  as  it  is 
here  expressed,  is  yet  his  by  the  implication  of  his  system,  and  it 
unifies  with  itself  the  highest  truths  both  of  religion  and  of  science. 
Hegel  was  born  at  Stuttgart,  August  27th,  1770.  He  studied  the- 
ology at  Tiibingen;  and  in  1793.  when  he  received  his  certificate,  he 
was  described  as  <^  of  good  abilities,  but  of  middling  industry  and  knowl- 
edge, and  especially  deficient  in  philosophy. »  Most  great  men  have 
been  misunderstood  by  their  teachers,  but  at  that  time  Hegel  may 
have  deserved  something  of  this  faint  praise.  His  first  great  intel- 
lectual awakening  seems  to  have  been  largely  due  to  his  association 
with  Schelling,  to  whom  as  a  fellow-student  of  philosophy  he  wrote 
in  1795:  "Let  reason  and  freedom  remain  our  watchword  and  our 
point  of  union  the  Church  invisible."  With  this  watchword  during 
the  excitement  of  the  French  Revolution  and  the  Napoleonic  wars, 
Hegel  devoted  himself  to  the  search  for  truth.  His  achievements  are 
too  great  for  cursory  review,  but  without  attempting  to  discuss  the 
metaphysical  part  of  his  work  as  it  concerns  the  operations  of  mind 
in  and  upon  itself,  we  may  accept  without  risk  the  judgment  of  those 
VI— 135 


2  1^6  GEORG   WILHEL^i    c-RIEDRICH   HEGEL 

who  declare  that  at  his  death.  November  14th.  1831,  he  left  behind 
him  at  least  four  of  the  greatest  intellectual  creations  of  the  nine- 
teenth century,— «  Philosophy  of  History,"  «^sthetics,»  «  Philosophy 
of  Religion,*' and  «  History  of  Philosophy." 


HISTORY   AS   THE   MANIFESTATION   OF   SPIRIT 

THE  true  sphere  of  the  history  of  the  world  is  spiritual.  The 
world  comprises  in  itself  both  the  physi-^al  and  the  psy- 
chical nature ;  physical  nature  plays  a  large  ^  „rt  in  the  history 
of  the  world.  But  spirit,  with  the  course  of  its  development,  is 
the  substance  of  it.  Nature  is  not  here  to  be  considered,  so  far 
as  it  is  in  itself,  as  it  were,  a  system  of  reason,  exhibited  in  a 
special  and  peculiar  element,  but  only  as  it  stands  related  to  spirit. 
Spirit,  however,  in  the  theatre  of  the  world's  history,  exists  in  its 
most  concrete  form,  comes  to  its  most  real  manifestations.  In 
order  to  understand  its  connections  with  history,  we  must  make 
some  preliminary  and  abstract  statements  respecting  the  nature 
of  spirit. 

The  nature  of  spirit  may  be  easily  understood  by  comparison 
with  that  which  is  the  entire  opposite  of  it, —  that  is,  matter.  The 
substance  of  matter  is  weight,  which  is  only  this,  that  it  is  heavy; 
the  substance,  the  essence  of  spirit,  on  the  contrary,  is  freedom. 
Every  one  finds  it  immediately  credible  that  spirit,  among  other 
attributes,  also  possesses  freedom ;  but  philosophy  teaches  us  that 
all  the  attributes  of  spirit  exist  only  through  freedom,  that  they 
all  are  only  the  means  of  which  freedom  makes  use,  that  this  alone 
is  what  they  all  seek  for  and  produce.  The  speculative  philosophy 
recognizes  this  fact,  that  freedom  is  the  only  truth  of  spirit.  Mat- 
ter shows  that  it  is  weight,  by  its  tendency  to  one  centre  of  grav- 
ity; it  is  essentially  made  up  of  parts,  which  parts  exist  separate 
from,  and  external  to,  each  other;  and  it  is  ever  seeking  their 
unity,  and  thus  seeks  to  abolish  itself, —  seeks  the  opposite  of  what 
it  really  is.  If  it  attained  this  unity,  it  were  no  longer  matter,  it 
were  destroyed;  it  strives  to  realize  an  idea,  for  in  unity  it  is 
merely  ideal.  Spirit,  on  the  other  hand,  is  just  this,  that  it  has 
its  centre  in  itself;  its  unity  is  not  outside  of  itself,  but  it  has  found 
it;  it  is  in  itself  and  with  itself.  Matter  has  its  substance  out  of  it- 
self; spirit  consists  in  being  with  itself.  This  is  freedom;  for  when 
I    am   dependent,  I  refer   myself   to   something   else  which  is  not 


GEORG  WILHELM   FRIEDRICH  HEGEL  2147 

myself;  I  cannot  be  without  something  external;  but  I  am  free 
when  I  am  with  myself.  This  is  self-consciousness,  the  conscious- 
ness of  oneself.  Two  things  are  here  to  be  distinguished:  first, 
that  I  know  or  am  conscious;  second,  what  I  know  or  am  con- 
scious of.  In  self -consciousness,  the  two  come  together,  for  spirit 
knows  itself;  it  judges  of  its  own  nature. 

In  this  sense,  we  may  say  that  the  history  of  the  world  is  the 
exhibition  of  the  process  by  which  spirit  comes  to  the  conscious- 
ness of  that  which  it  really  is, —  of  the  significancy  of  its  own 
nature.  And  as  the  seed  contains  in  itself  the  whole  nature  of 
the  tree,  even  to  the  taste  and  form  of  the  fruit,  so  do  the  first 
traces  of  spirit  virtually  contain  the  whole  of  history. 

The  Oriental  world  did  not  know  that  spirit,  man  as  such,  is 
of  himself  free.  Since  they  knew  it  not,  they  were  not  free;  they 
only  knew  that  one  is  free:  but  just  on  this  account  their  freedom 
was  only  arbitrariness,  wildness,  obtuse  passion;  or,  if  not  so,  yet 
a  mildness  and  tameness  of  the  passions,  which  is  nothing  but  an 
accident  or  caprice  of  nature.  This  one  is,  therefore,  only  a  des- 
pot, not  a  free  man.  Among  the  Greeks,  the  consciousness  of  free- 
dom first  arose,  and  therefore  they  were  free;  but  they,  as  the 
Romans  also,  only  knew  that  some  are  free,  not  that  man,  as  such, 
is  free.  Even  Plato  and,  Aristotle  did  not  know  this.  Hence,  the 
Greeks  not  only  held  slaves,  and  had  their  life  and  the  continuance 
of  their  fair  freedom  bound  thereby,  but  their  freedom  itself  was 
partly  only  an  accidental  and  perishable  flower,  and  partly  a  hard 
servitude  of  the  human  and  humane.  The  German  nations,  im- 
der  the  influence  of  Christianity,  first  came  to  the  consciousness 
that  man,  as  man,  is  free, — that  freedom  of  soul  constitutes  his  own 
proper  nature.  This  consciousness  came  first  into  existence  in 
religion, —  in  the  deepest  religion  of  the  spirit.  But  to  fashion 
the  world  after  this  principle  was  a  further  problem;  the  solu- 
tion and  application  of  which  demanded  a  severe  and  long  labor. 
With  the  reception  of  the  Christian  religion,  for  example,  slavery 
did  not  at  once  come  to  an  end,  still  less  did  freedom  at  once 
become  predominant  in  the  States;  their  governments  and  con- 
stitutions were  not  immediately  organized  in  a  rational  manner, 
or  even  based  upon  the  principle  of  freedom.  This  application  of 
the  principle  to  the  world  at  large,  this  thorough  penetration  and 
reformation  of  the  condition  of  the  world  by  means  of  it,  is  the 
long  process  which  the  history  of  the  nations  brings  before  our 
eyes.     I  have  already  called  attention  to  the  difference  between  a 


2148  GEORG  WILHELM    FRIEDRICH   HEGEL 

principle,  as  such,  and  its  application, —  that  is,  the  introduction 
of  it  into  the  actual  operations  of  spirit  and  life,  and  carrying  it 
through  all  of  them ;  this  is  a  fundamental  position  in  our  science, 
and  it  is  essential  that  we  hold  it  fast  in  our  thoughts.  Here  we 
have  brought  it  out  distinctly.,  in  respect  to  the  Christian  princi- 
ple of  self -consciousness  of  freedom ;  but  it  is  no  less  essential  in 
respect  to  the  principle  of  freedom  in  general.  The  history  of  the 
world  is  the  progress  in  the  consciousness  of  freedom, —  a  progress 
which  we  shall  have  to  recognize  in  its  necessity. 

What  we  have  now  said,  in  general  terms,  upon  the  difference 
in  the  knowledge  of  freedom  which  we  find  in  different  ages  of 
the  world,  gives  us,  also,  the  true  division  of  the  history  of  the 
world,  and  the  mode  in  which  we  shall  proceed  to  its  discussion. 
The  scheme  is  this :  the  Oriental  world  only  knew  that  one  is  free ; 
the  Greek  and  Roman  world  knew  that  some  are  free;  but  we 
know  that  all  men,  in  their  true  nature,  are  free, —  that  man,  as 
man,  is  free. 

From  «  Philosophy  of  History. » 


THE   RELATION   OF   INDIVIDUALS  TO   THE   WORLD'S   HISTORY 

IN  THE  history  of  the  world  something  else  is  generally  brought 
out  by  means  of  the  actions  of  individual  men  than  they  them- 
selves aim  at  or  attain,  than  they  directly  know  of  or  will;  they 
achieve  their  own  ends,  but  something  further  is  brought  to  pass 
in  connection  with  their  acts,  which  also  lies  therein,  but  which 
did  not  lie  in  their  consciousness  and  purposes.  As  an  analogous 
example  we  cite  the  case  of  a  man,  who  out  of  revenge,  which 
may  have  been  justly  excited,  that  is,  by  an  unjust  injury,  goes 
to  work  and  sets  fire  to  the  house  of  another  man.  Even  in  do- 
ing this,  there  is  a  connection  made  between  the  direct  act  and 
other,  although  themselves  merely  external  circumstances,  which 
do  not  belong  to  this  act,  taken  wholly  and  directly  by  itself.  This 
act,  as  such,  is  the  holding  perhaps  of  a  small  flame  to  a  small 
spot  of  a  wooden  beam.  What  is  not  yet  accomplished  by  this 
act  goes  on  and  is  done  of  itself;  the  part  of  the  beam  that  was 
set  on  fire  is  connected  with  other  parts  of  the  same  beam, 
this  too  with  the  rafters  and  joists  of  the  whole  house,  this  house 
with  other  houses,  and  a  widespread  conflagration  ensues,   which 


GEORG  WILHELM  FRIEDRICH  HEGEL  2149 

destroys  the  property  and  goods  of  many  other  men  besides  the 
one  against  whom  the  revenge  was  directed,  and  even  costs  many 
men  their  lives.  All  this  lay  not  in  the  general  act,  nor  in  the 
intention  of  him  who  began  it  all.  But,  still  further,  this  action 
has  another  general  character  and  destination:  in  the  purpose  of 
the  actor  it  was  only  revenge  against  an  individual  by  means  of 
the  destruction  of  his  property;  but  it  is  also  a  crime,  and  this 
involves,  further,  a  punishment.  This  may  not  have  been  included 
in  the  consciousness,  and  still  less  in  the  will  of  the  doer,  but  still 
such  is  his  act  in  itself,  the  general  character,  the  very  substance 
of  it,  that  which  is  achieved  by  it.  In  this  example  all  that  we 
would  hold  fast  is,  that  in  the  immediate  action  there  can  lie  some- 
thing more  than  what  was  in  the  will  and  consciousness  of  the 
actor.  The  substance  of  the  action,  and  thereby  the  act  itself, 
here  turns  round  against  the  doer;  it  becomes  a  return  blow  against 
him,  which  ruins  him.  We  have  not  here  to  lay  any  emphasis 
upon  the  action  considered  as  a  crime;  it  is  intended  only  as  an 
analogous  example,  to  show  that  in  the  definite  action  there  may 
be  something  more  than  the  end  directly  willed. 

One  other  case  may  be  adduced  which  will  come  up  later  in 
its  own  place,  and  which,  being  itself  historical,  contains,  in  the 
special  form  which  is  essential  to  our  purpose,  the  union  of  the 
general  with  the  particular,  of  an  end  necessary  in  itself  with  an 
aim  which  might  seem  accidental.  It  is  that  of  Cassar,  in  danger 
of  losing  the  position  he  had  obtained,  if  not  of  superiority  over, 
yet  of  equality  with,  the  other  man  who  stood  at  the  head  of  the 
Roman  state,  and  of  submitting  to  those  who  were  upon  the 
point  of  becoming  his  enemies.  These  enemies,  who  at  the  same 
time  had  their  own  personal  ends  in  view,  had  on  their  side  the 
formal  constitution  of  the  state  and  the  power  of  seeming  le- 
gality. Caesar  fought  to  maintain  his  own  position,  honor,  and 
safety,  and  the  victory  over  his  opponents  was  at  the  same  time 
the  conquest  of  the  whole  kingdom;  and  thus  he  became,  leaving 
only  the  forms  of  the  constitution  of  the  state,  the  sole  possessor 
of  power.  The  carrying  out  of  his  own  at  first  negative  purpose 
got  for  him  the  supremacy  in  Rome;  but  this  was  also  in  its 
true  nature  a  necessary  element  in  the  history  of  Rome  and  of 
the  world,  so  that  it  was  not  his  own  private  gain  merely,  but 
an  instinct  which  consummated  that  which,  considered  by  itself, 
lay  in  the  times  themselves.     Such  are  the  great  men  of   history 


2150  GEORG  WILHELM  FRIEDRICH  HEGEL 

—  those  whose  private  purposes  contain  the  substance  of  that 
which  is  the  will  of  the  spirit  of  the  world.  This  substance  con- 
stitutes their  real  power;  it  is  contained  in  the  general  and  un- 
conscious instinct  of  men;  they  are  inwardly  impelled  thereto, 
and  have  no  ground  on  which  they  can  stand  in  opposing  the 
man  who  has  undertaken  the  execution  of  such  a  purpose  in  his 
own  interest.  The  people  assemble  around  his  banner;  he  shows 
to  them,  and  carries  out  that  which  is  their  own  immanent  des- 
tiny. 

Should  we,  further,  cast  a  look  at  the  fate  of  these  world- 
historical  individuals,  we  see  that  they  have  had  the  fortune  to 
be  the  leaders  to  a  consummation  which  marks  a  stage  in  the 
progress  of  the  general  mind.  That  reason  makes  use  of  these 
instruments  we  might  call  its  craft;  for  it  lets  them  carry  out 
their  own  aims  with  all  the  rage  of  passion,  and  not  only  keeps 
itself  unharmed,  but  makes  itself  dominant.  The  particular  is  for 
the  most  part  too  feeble  against  the  universal;  the  individuals  are 
sacrificed.  Thus  the  world's  history  presents  itself  as  the  conflict 
of  individuals,  and  in  the  field  of  their  special  interests  all  goes 
on  very  naturally.  In  the  animal  world  the  preservation  of  life 
is  the  aim  and  instinct  of  each  individual,  and  yet  reason  or  gen- 
eral laws  prevail,  and  the  individuals  fall;  thus  is  it  also  in  the 
spiritual  world.  Passions  destroy  each  other;  reason  alone  watches, 
pursues  its  end,  and  makes  itself  authoritative. 


LAW  AND   LIBERTY 

LAW,  considered  as  freedom  determining  itself,  is  the  objectivity 
of  spirit:  hence  that  alone  is  true  volition,  the  will  in  the 
truth  of  it,  which  obeys  law,  for  it  then  obeys  only  itself; 
it  is  then  with  itself  and  free;  this  is  the  freedom  in  the  State 
for  which  the  citizen  is  active,  and  which  fills  his  soul.  In  that 
the  state,  the  fatherland,  constitutes  a  community  of  existence, —  in 
that  the  subjective  will  of  man  becomes  subject  to  the  laws,  the 
opposition  between  freedom  and  necessity  vanishes.  The  rational, 
that  which  we  have  recognized  as  law,  is  necessary;  and  we  are 
free  when  we  follow  what  is  rational;  the  objective  and  subjec- 
tive will  are  thus  reconciled.  The  ethics  of  the  state  afe  not  to 
be  regarded  as  the  same   thing  with  mere  morality,   are  not   the 


GEORG  WILHELM  FRIEDRICH  HEGEL  2 151 

mere  result  of  reflection,  are  not  dependent  upon  private  convic- 
tions alone;  this  is  the  system  of  morals  familiar  to  the  modern 
world,  while  the  true  and  ancient  system  was  based  on  this,  that 
each  man  stood  to  his  duty.  A  citizen  of  Athens  did  as  it  were 
by  instinct  what  belonged  to  him  to  do;  but  if  I  reflect  upon  the 
object  of  my  actions,  I  must  then  have  the  consciousness  that  my 
own  will  is  first  to  come  in  as  an  essential  element.  But  the 
true  ethics  consists  in  duty,  in  conformity  with  right,  with  law 
which  has  a  real,  substantial  existence;  it  has  been  justly  called 
the  second  nature,  for  the  first  nature  of  man  is  his  primitive, 
animal  existence. 

From  «  History  of  Philosophy. » 


RELIGION,  ART,  AND    PHILOSOPHY 

ALL  spiritual  action  has  for  its  aim  and  result  the  production 
of  the  consciousness  of  the  union  of  the  objective  and  the 
subjective;  in  this  is  freedom.  This  union  appears  to  be 
produced  by  the  thinking  subject,  and  to  go  out  from  it.  Reli- 
gion stands  at  the  head  of  the  forms  of  this  union.  Here  the 
existing  spirit,  the  spirit  belonging  to  this  world,  becomes  con- 
scious of  the  Absolute  Spirit;  and  in  this  consciousness  of  a  being 
existing  in  and  for  itself,  the  will  of  man  renounces  its  particu- 
lar for  private  interests:  in  devotion,  he  puts  this  aside,  for  here 
he  can  have  nothing  to  do  with  what  is  merely  personal  to  him- 
self. If  he  is  truly  penetrated  with  devotion,  he  knows  that  his 
particular  interests  are  subordinate.  This  concentration  of  soul 
shows  itself  as  feeling,  but  it  also  passes  over  into  reflection; 
the  cultus.  meaning  by  this  all  forms  of  outward  worship,  is  a 
manifestation  of  such  reflection;  the  only  destination  and  signifi- 
cancy  of  these  externals  is  to  produce  that  internal  union, —  to 
lead  the  spirit  thereto.  By  sacrifices,  man  expresses  his  willing- 
ness to  give  up  his  own  possessions,  his  own  will,  his  own  par- 
ticular feelings.  Thus  Religion  is  the  first  form  of  the  union  of 
the  objective  and  subjective.  The  second  shape  it  takes  is  Art: 
this  comes  more  directly  into  the  world  of  sense  than  religion ; 
in  its  worthiest  bearing  its  object  is  to  exhibit,  not,  indeed,  God 
as  spirit,  but  the  different  visible  representations  which  the  dif- 
ferent religions  give  of  God;    and,  then,   what  is  divine  and   sjiir- 


2  152  GEORG  WILHELM  FRIEDRICH  HEGEL 

itual  in  general.  Art  is  intended  to  make  what  is  divine  more 
clear;  it  presents  it  to  the  imagination  and  contemplation  in  visi- 
ble shapes.  Truth,  finally,  appears  not  only  in  the  form  of  feel- 
ing and  of  mental  images  of  things,  as  in  religion;  not  only  in 
visible  shapes,  as  in  art;  but  it  is  also  elaborated  by  the  think- 
ing spirit.  Thus  we  attain  the  third  mode  of  the  union  of  the 
objective  and  subjective,  and  that  is  philosophy.  This  is  the 
highest,  freest,  and  purest  shape  which  it  assumes. 

From  « Philosophy  of  History.* 


2153 


HEINRICH   HEINE 

(1799-1856) 

'iNCE  Horace,  Heinrich  Heine  has  had  no  superior  as  a  master 
of  lyrical  expression.  Among  Moderns,  Burns  alone  com- 
pares with  him,  and  even  Burns  himself,  though  gpreater  as 
a  poet,  is  his  inferior  as  a  musician.  While  it  would  be  misleading 
to  speak  of  Heine  as  a  great  poet;  while  he  is  above  everything  a 
musician,  he  is  not  merely  a  maker  of  melodies,  for  he  had  an  intel- 
lect of  intense  and  incessant  activity, —  a  true  "genius"  of  that  cor- 
roding kind  which  eats  away  the  life  of  its  possessor,  nourishing 
itself  by  his  pain  and  finding  its  perfect  expression  only  at  the  ex- 
pense of  his  destruction.  Having  such  genius,  Heine  was  one  of  the 
greatest  wits  as  well  as  the  greatest  musicians  of  his  age.  A  great 
poet,  however,  must  be  a  great  thinker  —  the  greatest  of  all  great 
thinkers.  In  the  fairy  tales  of  Hans  Christian  Andersen,  we  often  de- 
tect momentarily  the  flashes  of  an  intellect  too  intensely  radiant  to 
be  revealed  at  all.  The  Hebrew  prophet  and  lawgiver  hidden  in  the 
cleft  of  the  rock  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  meaning  of  eternity  as  it 
passed  him  is  a  type  of  such  minds,  which,  realizing  the  everlasting 
simplicities  of  the  natural  and  supernatural  world,  learn  to  express 
them  so  that  they  take  an  enduring  hold  on  the  weakest  —  doing 
most  to  strengthen,  to  elevate,  to  immortalize  those  who  are  least 
capable  of  suspecting  their  meaning.  Every  great  poet  has  this  gift, 
and  Heine  did  not  have  it.  He  was  born  for  it.  It  was  his  birth- 
right, but  he  forfeited  it,— making  through  passion  the  "Great  Renun- 
ciation.»  "With  such  a  physical  organization  as  might  have  been  fit 
to  incarnate  a  seraph,  he  lived  an  animal  life  of  unrestrained  emo- 
tion and  passion,  until  at  last,  chained  to  his  "mattress  grave >>  through 
years  of  helpless  agony,  he  welcomed  death,  with  a  most  solemn 
jest,  —  "God  will  forgive  me:  it  is  his  business !»  This,  they  say, 
was  his  final  judgment  on  his  own  career — not  impious,  though  it 
has  been  called  so;  but  full  of  the  self-contempt  and  self-mockery 
which  was  so  characteristic  of  the  overwhelming  pride  of  this  great 
fallen  angel.  Let  no  one  say  that  he  was  wholly  wrong!  Yet  if  it 
is  easy  and  natural  for  heaven  to  forgive  most  to  those  who  suffer 
most,  it  is  harder  for  those  who  are  drawn  to  Heine  by  his  mastery 
of  the  deepest  secrets  of  music  to  forgive  him  for  the  use  he  makes 
of  his  power  to  impart  to  those  who  love  him    best   the  contagion  of 


2154 


HEINRICH   HEINE 


his  own  intellectual  and  spiritual  diseases  and  the  pain  of  his  own 
tortures.  He  is  the  poet  of  «  Weltschmerz  >>  —  of  <<  world  weariness,* 
and  he  will  allow  no  one  who  loves  him  too  well  for  his  music  to 
escape  it.  To  know  his  music  and  not  to  love  it  is  scarcely  possible 
for  those  who  have  the  inner  <^  hearing  ear "  for  the  melody  of  verse. 
Until  he  wrote,  German  was  called  a  harsh  and  guttural  tongue.  He 
showed  that  its  worst  dissonances  can  be  used  as  the  distinctive 
feature  of  the  highest  harmonies  of  verse.  In  its  prose  or  its  verse, 
spoken  by  a  beggar  or  sung  by  Petrarch,  the  Italian  language  is  it- 
self music — inferior  in  melody  only  to  the  Latin  from  which  it  was 
derived.  But  the  <*  ballatas  *'  and  "  canzones  ^>  of  Tuscany  are  to  Heine's 
"lieder^*  what  sirups  are  to  sparkling  wines.  Necessarily,  the  same 
ear  for  the  music  of  language  which  dominates  his  verse  governs 
Heine's  prose  also.  It  can  be  translated  with  no  greater  ease  than 
the  symphonies  of  one  great  musican  can  be  converted  into  the  mus- 
ical "  terminology  *'  of  some  other  master.  The  lyrics  of  such  a  poet 
as  Heine  approach  the  musical  perfection  which  makes  the  shorter 
odes  of  Horace  illustrations  of  the  fundamental  laws  of  music.  But 
if  Heine's  melody  cannot  be  transferred  from  German  to  English,  his 
wit  forces  expression,  in  spite  of  all  difficulties.  His  "  Pictures  of 
Travel,**  and  other  essays  and  sketches,  might  have  kept  his  name 
alive,  had  he  never  written  his  "Lieder." 

In  his  essays  as  in  his  songs  there  is  much  that  is  abnormal  and 
diseased,  but  little  that  is  commonplace,  and  nothing  that  is  merely 
silly.  At  his  worst,  Heine  is  diabolical,  but  it  is  the  diabolism  of  a 
great  soul  "cast  down,*  but  not  lost.  It  is  not  only  Heaven's  << busi- 
ness** to  forgive  all  such,  but  to  save  them  —  from  themselves  if  that 
be  possible !  W.  V.  B. 


DIALOGUE   ON   THE   THAMES 

THE  sallow  man  stood  near  me  on  the  deck,  as  I  gazed  on  the 
green  shores  of  the  Thames,  while  in  every  corner  of  my 
soul  the  nightingales  awoke  to  life.  "  Land  of  Freedom !  ** 
I  cried,  «  I  greet  thee !  Hail  to  thee,  Freedom,  young  sun  of  the 
renewed  world!  Those  older  suns,  Love  and  Faith,  are  withered 
and  cold,  and  can  no  longer  light  or  warm  us.  The  ancient  myrtle 
woods,  which  were  once  all  too  full,  are  now  deserted,  and  only 
timid  turtledoves  nestle  amid  the  soft  thickets.  The  old  cathe- 
drals, once  piled  in  towering  height  by  an  arrogantly  pious  race, 
which  fain  would  force  its  faith  into  heaven,  are  brittle,  and  their 
gods  have  ceased  to  believe  in  themselves.      Those  divinities  are 


HEINRICH  HEINE  2155 

worn  out,  and  our  age  lacks  the  imagination  to  shape  new. 
Every  power  of  the  human  breast  now  tends  to  the  love  of  Lib- 
erty, and  Liberty  is,  perhaps,  the  religion  of  the  modem  age. 
And  it  is  a  religion  not  preached  to  the  rich,  but  to  the  poor, 
and  it  has  in  like  manner  its  evangelists,  its  martyrs,  and  its 
Iscariots!** 

"Young  enthusiast,"  said  the  sallow  man,  *'you  will  not  find 
what  you  seek.  You  may  be  in  the  right  in  believing  that  Lib- 
erty is  a  new  religion  which  will  spread  itself  over  all  the  world. 
But  as  every  race  of  old,  when  it  received  Christianity,  did  so 
according  to  its  requirements  and  its  peculiar  character,  so,  at 
present,  every  country  adopts  from  the  new  religion  of  liberty 
only  that  which  is  in  accordance  with  its  local  needs  and  national 
character. 

"  The  English  are  a  domestic  race,  living  a  limited,  peaceable 
family  life,  and  the  Englishman  seeks  in  the  circle  of  those  con- 
nected with  and  pertaining  to  him  that  easy  state  of  mind  which 
is  denied  to  him  through  his  innate  social  incapacity.  The  Eng- 
lishman is,  therefore,  contented  with  that  liberty  which  secures 
his  most  personal  rights  and  guards  his  body,  his  property,  and 
his  conjugal  relations,  his  religion,  and  even  his  whims,  in  the 
most  unconditional  manner.  No  one  is  freer  in  his  home  than 
an  Englishman,  and,  to  use  a  celebrated  expression,  he  is  king 
and  bishop  between  his  four  stakes;  and  there  is  much  truth  in 
the  common  saying,  ^  My  house  is  my  castle.* 

"  If  the  Englishman  has  the  greatest  need  of  personal  free- 
dom, the  Frenchman,  in  case  of  need,  can  dispen.se  with  it,  if  we 
only  grant  him  that  portion  of  universal  liberty  known  as  equal- 
ity. The  French  are  not  a  domestic,  but  a  social  race;  they  are 
no  friends  to  a  silent  tete-k-tete,  which  they  call  une  co7iversation 
Anglaise;  they  run  gossiping  about  from  the  caf^  to  the  casino, 
and  from  the  casino  to  the  salons;  their  light  champagne  blood 
and  inborn  talent  for  company  drives  them  to  social  life,  whose 
first  and  last  principles,  yes,  whose  very  soul  is  equality.  The 
development  of  the  social  principle  in  France  necessarily  involved 
that  of  equality,  and  if  the  ground  of  the  Revolution  should  be 
sought  in  the  Budget,  it  is  none  the  less  true  that  its  language 
and  tone  were  drawn  from  those  wits  of  low  degree  who  lived 
in  the  salons  of  Paris,  apparently  on  a  footing  of  equality  with 
the  high  noblesse,  and  who  were  now  and  then  reminded,  it  may 
have  been  by  a  hardly  perceptible,  yet   not   on  that  account  letis 


2156  HEINRICH  HEINE 

aggravating,  feudal  smile,  of  the  great  and  ignominious  inequal- 
ity which  lay  between  them.  And  when  the  canaille  roturiere 
took  the  liberty  of  beheading  that  high  noblesse,  it  was  done 
less  to  inherit  their  property  than  their  ancestry,  and  to  introduce 
a  noble  equality  in  place  of  a  vulgar  inequality.  And  we  are 
the  better  authorized  to  believe  that  this  striving  for  equality 
was  the  main  principle  of  the  Revolution,  since  the  French  speed- 
ily found  themselves  so  happy  and  contented  under  the  dominion 
of  their  great  Emperor,  who,  fully  appreciating  that  they  were 
not  yet  of  age,  kept  all  their  freedom  within  the  limits  of  his 
powerful  guardianship,  permitting  them  only  the  pleasure  of  a 
perfect  and  admirable  equality. 

"  Far  more  patient  than  the  Frenchman,  the  Englishman  easily 
bears  the  glances  of  a  privileged  aristocracy,  consoling  himself 
with  the  reflection  that  he  has  a  right  by  which  it  is  rendered 
impossible  to  the  others  to  disturb  his  personal  comfort  or  his 
daily  requirements.  Nor  does  the  aristocracy  here  make  a  show 
of  its  privileges  as  on  the  Continent.  In  the  streets  and  in  places 
of  public  resort  in  London,  colored  ribbons  are  only  seen  on 
women's  bonnets,  and  gold  and  silver  signs  of  distinction  on  the 
dresses  of  lackeys.  Even  that  beautiful  colored  livery  which 
indicates  with  us  military  rank  is  in  England  anything  but  a  sign 
of  honor,  and  as  an  actor  after  a  play  hastens  to  wash  off  the 
rouge,  so  an  English  officer  hastens,  when  the  hours  of  active 
duty  are  over,  to  strip  off  his  red  coat  and  again  appear  like  a 
gentleman,  in  the  plain  garb  of  a  gentleman.  Only  at  the  thea- 
ter of  St.  James  are  those  decorations  and  costumes,  which  were 
raked  from  the  offscourings  of  the  Middle  Ages,  of  any  avail. 
There  we  may  see  the  ribbons  of  orders  of  nobility;  there  the  stars 
glitter,  silk  knee-breeches,  and  satin  trains  rustle,  golden  spurs 
and  old-fashioned  French  styles  of  expression  clatter;  there  the 
knight  struts  and  the  lady  spreads  herself.  But  what  does  a  free 
Englishman  care  for  the  court  comedy  of  St.  James,  so  long  as 
it  does  not  trouble  him,  and  so  long  as  no  one  interferes  when 
he  plays  comedy  in  like  manner  in  his  own  house,  making  his 
lackeys  kneel  before  him,  or  plays  with  the  garter  of  a  pretty 
cook  maid  ?     Honi  soit  qui  mat  y  pense! 

"As  for  the  Germans,  they  need  neither  freedom  nor  equality. 
They  are  a  speculative  race,  ideologists,  prophets,  and  after- 
thinkers,  dreamers  who  only  live  in  the  past  and  in  the  future, 
and  who  have  no  present.      Englishmen  and  Frenchmen   have  a 


HEINRICH  HEINE  2157 

present;  with  them  every  day  has  its  field  of  action,  its  opposing 
element,  its  history.  The  German  has  nothing  for  which  to  bat- 
tle, and  when  he  began  to  realize  that  there  might  be  things 
worth  striving  for,  his  philosophizing  wiseacres  taught  him  to 
doubt  the  existence  of  such  things.  It  cannot  be  denied  that  the 
Germans  love  liberty.  But  it  is  in  a  different  manner  from  other 
people.  The  Englishman  loves  liberty  as  his  lawful  wife,  and  if 
he  does  not  treat  her  with  remarkable  tenderness,  he  is  still  ready 
in  case  of  need  to  defend  her  like  a  man,  and  woe  to  the  red- 
coated  rascal  who  forces  his  way  to  her  bedroom  —  let  him  do  so 
as  a  gallant  or  as  a  catchpoll.  The  Frenchman  loves  liberty  as  his 
bride.  He  burns  for  her;  he  is  aflame;  he  casts  himself  at  her 
feet  with  the  most  extravagant  protestations;  he  will  fight  for  her 
to  the  death;  he  commits  for  her  sake  a  thousand  follies.  The 
German  loves  Liberty  as  though  she  were  his  old  grandmother.'* 

Men  are  strange  beings!  We  grumble  in  our  Fatherland; 
every  stupid  thing,  every  contrary  trifle,  vexes  us  there;  like  boys, 
we  are  always  longing  to  rush  forth  into  the  wide  world;  and 
when  we  finally  find  ourselves  out  in  the  wide  world,  we  find  it 
a  world  too  wide,  and  often  yearn  in  secret  for  the  narrow  stu- 
pidities and  contrarieties  of  home.  Yes,  we  would  fain  be  again 
in  the  old  chamber,  sitting  behind  the  familiar  stove,  making  for 
ourselves,  as  it  were,  a  "  cubby-house  '*  near  it,  and,  nestling  there, 
read  the  German  General  Advertiser.  So  it  was  with  me  in  my 
journey  to  England.  Scarcely  had  I  lost  sight  of  the  German 
shore  ere  there  awoke  in  me  a  curious  after-love  for  the  German 
nightcaps  and  forest-like  wigs  which  I  had  just  left  in  discon- 
tent, and  when  the  Fatherland  faded  from  my  eyes  I  found  it 
again  in  my  heart. 

And,  therefore,  it  may  be  that  my  voice  quivered  in  a  some- 
what lower  key  as  I  replied  to  the  sallow  man :  **  Dear  sir,  do 
not  scold  the  Germans!  If  they  are  dreamers,  still  many  of  them 
have  dreamed  such  beautiful  dreams  that  I  would  hardly  incline 
to  change  them  for  the  waking  realities  of  our  neighbors.  Since 
we  all  sleep  and  dream,  we  can  perhaps  dispense  with  freedom; 
for  our  tyrants  also  sleep,  and  only  dream  their  tyranny.  We 
only  awoke  once  —  when  the  Catholic  Romans  robbed  us  of  our 
dream-freedom;  then  we  acted  and  conquered,  and  laid  us  down 
a^ain  and  dreamed.  O  sir!  do  not  mock  our  dreamers,  for  now 
and  then  they  speak,  like  somnambulists,  wondrous  things  in  sleep, 
and  their  words  become  the  seeds  of  freedom.     No  one  can  fore- 


2158  HEINRICH  HEINE 

see  the  turn  which  things  may  take.  The  splenetic  Briton,  weary 
of  his  wife,  may  put  a  halter  round  her  neck  and  sell  her  in 
Smithfield.  The  flattering  Frenchman  may  perhaps  be  untrue  to 
his  beloved  bride  and  abandon  her,  and,  singing,  dance  after  the 
court  dames  {courtisanes)  of  his  royal  palace  {palais  royal).  But 
the  German  will  never  turn  his  old  grandmother  quite  out  of 
doors;  he  will  always  find  a  place  for  her  by  his  fireside,  where 
she  can  tell  his  listening  children  her  legends.  Should  Freedom 
ever  —  which  God  forbid  —  vanish  from  the  entire  world,  a  Ger- 
man dreamer  would  discover  her  again  in  his  dreams.** 

While  the  steamboat,  and  with  it  our  conversation,  swam  thus 
along  the  stream,  the  sun  had  set,  and  his  last  rays  lit  up  the 
hospital  at  Greenwich,  an  imposing  palace-like  building  which  in 
reality  consists  of  two  wings,  the  space  between  which  is  empty, 
and  a  green  hill  crowned  with  a  pretty  little  tower,  from  which 
one  can  behold  those  passing  by.  On  the  water  the  throng  of 
vessels  became  denser  and  denser,  and  I  wondered  at  the  adroit- 
ness with  which  the  larger  avoided  contact.  While  passing,  many 
a  sober  and  friendly  face  nodded  greetings  —  faces  whom  we  had 
never  seen  before,  and  were  never  to  see  again.  We  sometimes 
came  so  near  that  it  was  possible  to  shake  hands  in  joint  wel- 
come and  adieu.  One's  heart  swells  at  the  sight  of  so  many 
swelling  sails,  and  we  feel  strangely  moved  when  the  confused 
hum  and  far-off  dancing  music  and  the  deep  voices  of  sailors  re- 
sound from  the  shore.  But  the  outlines  of  all  things  vanished 
little  by  little  behind  the  white  veil  of  the  evening  mist,  and 
there  only  remained  visible  a  forest  of  masts,  rising  long  and  bare 
above  it. 

The  sallow  man  still  stood  near  me  and  gazed  reflectively  on 
high,  as  though  he  sought  for  the  pale  stars  in  the  cloudy  heaven. 
And  still  gazing  on  high,  he  laid  his  hand  on  my  shoulder,  and 
said  in  a  tone  as  though  secret  thoughts  involuntarily  became 
words :  "  Freedom  and  equality !  they  are  not  to  be  found  on 
earth  below  nor  in  heaven  above.  The  stars  on  high  are  not 
alike,  for  one  is  greater  and  brighter  than  the  other;  none  of 
them  wander  free,  all  obey  a  prescribed  and  iron-like  law  —  there 
is  slavery  in  heaven  as  on  earth !  ** 

<*  There    is   the    tower!**    suddenly  cried    one  of    our   traveling 
companions,  as   he    pointed    to  a  high  building  which  rose    like  a 
spectral,  gloomy  dream  above  the  cloud-covered  London. 
Complete.    From  « Pictures  of  Travel. »  Translated  by  Charles  Godfrey  Leland, 


HEINRICH  HEINE  2159 


HIS  VIEW  OP   GOETHE 


IN  SOME  future  article  I  shall  speak  of  the  new  poets  who  flour- 
ished under  the  imperial  reign  of  Goethe,     They  resemble   a 

young-  forest,  whose  trees  first  show  their  own  magnitude,  after 
the  oak  of  a  hundred  years,  whose  branches  had  towered  above 
and  overshadowed  them,  has  fallen.  There  was  not  wanting,  as 
already  stated,  an  opposition  that  strove  with  embittered  zeal 
against  Goethe,  this  majestic  tree.  Men  of  the  most  warring 
opinions  united  themselves  for  the  contest.  The  adherents  of  the 
old  faith,  the  orthodox,  were  vexed  that  in  the  trunk  of  the  vast 
tree  no  niche  with  its  holy  image  was  to  be  found;  nay,  that  even 
the  naked  Dryads  of  paganism  were  permitted  there  to  play  their 
witchery;  and  gladly,  with  consecrated  ax,  would  they  have  imi- 
tated the  holy  Boniface,  and  leveled  the  enchanted  oak  with  the 
ground.  The  partisans  of  the  new  faith,  the  apostles  of  liberalism, 
were  vexed,  on  the  other  hand,  that  this  tree  could  not  serve  as 
the  tree  of  liberty,  or,  at  any  rate,  as  a  barricade.  In  fact,  the 
tree  was  too  high,  no  one  could  plant  the  red  cap  upon  its  sum- 
mit, or  dance  the  Carmagnole  beneath  its  branches.  The  many, 
however,  venerated  this  tree,  for  the  very  reason  that  it  reared 
itself  with  such  independent  grandeur,  and  so  graciously  filled  the 
world  with  its  odor,  while  its  branches,  streaming  magnificently 
toward  heaven,  made  it  appear  as  if  stars  were  only  the  golden 
fruit  of  its  wondrous  limbs. 

In  truth,  that  accordance  of  personal  appearance  with  genius, 
which  we  ever  desire  to  see  in  distinguished  men,  was  found  in 
perfection  in  Goethe.  His  outward  appearance  was  just  as  impos- 
ing as  the  word  that  lives  in  his  writings.  Even  his  form  was 
symmetrical,  expressive  of  joy,  nobly  proportioned,  and  one  might 
study    the    Grecian    art    upon    it    as    well    as    upon    an    antique. 


His  eyes  were  calm  as  those  of  a  god.  It  is  the  peculiar  char- 
acteristic of  the  gods,  that  their  gaze  is  ever  steady,  and  their  eyes 
roll  not  to  and  fro  in  uncertainty.  Therefore,  when  Agni,  Var- 
una,  Yama,  and  Indra  assume  the  form  of  Nala,  at  the  marriage  of 
Damayantis,  she  discovers  her  beloved  by  the  twinkle  of  his  eye; 
for,  as  I  have  said,  the  eyes  of  the  gods  are  ever  motionless.  The 
eyes  of   Napoleon  had  this  peculiarity;   therefore   I  am  persuaded 


2i6o  HEINRICH  HEINE 

that  he  was  a  god.     The   eye  of  Goethe   remained,  in   his  latest 

age,  just  as  divine  as  in  his  youth.  Time,  indeed,  had  covered  his 
head  with  snow,  but  could  never  bow  it.  To  the  last  he  bore  it 
proudly  and  loftily;  and  when  he  spoke  he  became  still  more  majes- 
tic, and  when  he  stretched  forth  his  hand  it  was  as  if  his  finger 
were  to  prescribe  to  the  stars  their  courses  in  the  heavens.  Around 
his  mouth  some  profess  to  have  seen  a  trait  of  egotism,  but  even 
this  is  peculiar  to  the  immortal  gods,  and  especially  to  the  father 
of  the  gods,  the  mighty  Jupiter,  to  whom  Goethe  has  already  been 
compared.  Verily,  when  I  visited  him  at  Weimar,  and  stood  in 
his  presence,  I  involuntarily  turned  my  eyes  one  side,  to  see  if 
the  eagle,  with  the  thunderbolts  in  his  beak,  were  not  attendant 
upon  him.  I  was  just  on  the  point  of  addressing  him  in  Greek; 
but,  when  I  perceived  that  he  spoke  German,  I  told  him  in  that 
language,  *^  That  the  plums  upon  the  road  between  Jena  and  Wei- 
mar had  an  excellent  relish.'*  Many  a  long  winter  night  had  I 
thought  with  myself  how  much  that  was  lofty  and  profound  I 
should  say  to  Goethe,  if  ever  I  should  see  him ;  and  when  at  last 
I  saw  him,  I  told  him  that  the  Saxon  plums  were  excellent!  And 
Goethe  smiled.  He  smiled  with  those  very  lips  with  which  he  once 
had  kissed  the  beauteous  Leda,  Europa,  Danae,  Semele,  and  so 
many  other  princesses  or  common  nymphs. 

From  «  Letters  Auxiliary  to  the  History  of  Modern   Polite   Literature  in  Ger- 
many.* 


NAPOLEON 

WHEN  I  think  of  the  great  Emperor,  all  in  my  memory  again 
becomes  summer-green  and  golden.  A  long  avenue  of 
lindens  rises  blooming  around;  on  the  leafy  twigs  sit 
singing  nightingales,  the  waterfall  rustles,  flowers  are  growing 
from  full  round  beds,  dreamily  nodding  their  fair  heads.  I  stood 
amidst  them  once  in  wondrous  intimacy;  the  rouged  tulips,  proud 
as  beggars,  condescendingly  greeted  me;  the  nervous,  sick  lilies 
nodded  with  woeful  tenderness;  the  tipsy  red  roses  nodded  at  me 
at  first  sight  from  a  distance;  the  night  violets  sighed;  with  the 
myrtle  and  laurel  I  was  not  then  acquainted,  for  they  did  not 
entice  with  a  shining  bloom;  but  the  reseda,  with  whom  I  am 
now  on  such  bad  terms,  was  my  very  particular  friend.  I  am 
speaking  of  the  court  garden   of   Diisseldorf,  where  I   often   lay 


HEINRICH    HEINli  2l6l 

upon  the  bank,  and  piously  listened  there  when  Monsieur  Le 
Grand  told  of  the  warlike  feats  of  the  great  Emperor,  beating 
meanwhile  the  marches  which  were  drummed  during  the  deeds, 
so  that  I  saw  and  heard  all  to  the  life.  I  saw  the  passage  over 
the  Simplon — the  Emperor  in  advance  and  his  brave  grenadiers 
climbing  on  behind  him,  while  the  scream  of  frightened  birds  of 
prey  sounded  around,  and  avalanches  thundered  in  the  distance; 
I  saw  the  Emperor  with  flag  in  hand  on  the  bridge  of  Lodi;  I 
saw  the  Emperor  in  his  gray  cloak  at  Marengo;  I  saw  the  Em- 
peror mounted  in  the  battle  of  the  Pyramids  —  naught  around 
save  powder,  smoke,  and  Mamelukes;  I  saw  the  Emperor  in  the 
battle  of  Austerlitz  —  ha!  how  the  bullets  whistled  over  the  smooth, 
icy  road;  I  saw,  I  heard  the  battle  of  Jena  —  diim,  duni,  dum; 
I  saw,  I  heard  the  battles  of  Eylau,  of  Wagram — no,  I  could 
hardly  stand  it!  Monsieur  Le  Grand  drummed  so  that  I  nearly 
burst  my  own   sheepskin. 

But  what  were  my  feelings  when  I  first  saw  with  highly  blest 
(and  with  my  own)   eyes  him,  Hosannah !  the  Emperor! 

It  was  exactly  in  the  avenue  of  the  Court  Garden  at  Diissel- 
dorf.  As  I  pressed  through  the  gaping,  crowd,  thinking  of  the 
doughty  deeds  and  battles  which  Monsieur  Le  Grand  had  drummed 
to  me,  my  heart  beat  the  "general  march  *^ — yet  at  the  same  time 
I  thought  of  the  police  regulation  that  no  one  should  dare,  under 
penalty  of  five  dollars  fine,  ride  through  the  avenue.  And  the 
Emperor  with  his  cortege  rode  directly  down  the  avenue.  The 
trembling  trees  bowed  towards  him  as  he  advanced,  the  sun  rays 
quivered,  frightened,  yet  curiously  through  the  green  leaves,  and 
in  the  blue  heaven  above  there  swam  visibly  a  golden  star.  The 
Emperor  wore  his  invisible  green  uniform  and  the  little  world- 
renowned  hat.  He  rode  a  white  palfrey  which  stepped  with  such 
calm  pride,  so  confidently,  so  nobly  —  had  I  then  been  Crown 
Prince  of  Prussia  I  would  have  envied  that  horse.  The  Emperor 
sat  carelessly,  almost  lazily,  holding  with  one  hand  his  rein,  and 
with  the  other  good-naturedly  patting  the  neck  of  the  horse.  It 
was  a  sunny  marble  hand,  a  mighty  hand, —  one  of  the  pair  which 
bound  fast  the  many-headed  monster  of  Anarchy,  and  reduced  to 
order  the  war  of  races, —  and  it  good-naturedly  patted  the  neck  of 
the  horse.  Even  the  face  had  that  hue  which  wc  find  in  the 
marble  Greek  and  Roman  busts,  the  traits  were  as  nobly  propor- 
tioned as  in  the  antiques,  and  on  that  countenance  was  plainly 
written,  "  Thou  shalt  have  no  gods  before  me !  "  A  smile,  which 
VT — T35 


2i6,  HEINRICH   HEINE 

warmed  and  tranquillized  every  heart,  flitted  over  the  lips  — and 
yet  all  knew  that  those  lips  needed  but  to  whistle  —  ^/  la  Prusse 
n'existait  plus;  those  lips  needed  but  to  whistle  — and  the  entire 
clergy  would  have  stopped  their  ringing  and  singing;  those  lips 
needed  but  to  whistle— and  the  entire  holy  Roman  realm  would 
have  danced.  It  was  an  eye,  clear  as  heaven,  it  could  read  the 
hearts  of  men,  it  saw  at  a  glance  all  things  at  once,  and  as  they 
were  in  this  world,  while  we  ordinary  mortals  see  them  only  one 
by  one  and  by  their  shaded  hues.  The  brow  was  not  so  clear, 
the  phantoms  of  future  battles  were  nestling  there,  and  there 
was  a  quiver  which  swept  over  the  brow,  and  those  were  the 
creative  thoughts,  the  great  seven-mile-boots  thoughts,  wherewith 
the  spirit  of  the  Emperor  strode  invisibly  over  the  world — and 
I  believe  that  every  one  of  those  thoughts  would  have  given  to 
a  German  author  full  material  wherewith  to  write,  all  the  days 
of  his  life. 

The  Emperor  is  dead.  On  a  waste  island  in  the  Indian  Sea 
lies  his  lonely  grave,  and  he  for  whom  the  world  was  too  nar- 
row lies  silently  under  a  little  hillock,  where  five  weeping  wil- 
lows hang  their  green  heads,  and  a  gentle  little  brook,  murmuring 
sorrowfully,  ripples  by.  There  is  no  inscription  on  his  tomb;  but 
Clio,  with  unerring  pen,  has  written  thereon  invisible  words,  which 
will  resound,  like  spirit  tones,  through  thousands  of  years. 

Britannia !  the  sea  is  thine.  But  the  sea  hath  not  water  enough 
to  wash  away  the  shame  with  which  the  death  of  that  Mighty  One 
hath  covered  thee.  Not  thy  windy  Sir  Hudson  —  no,  thou  thyself 
wert  the  Sicilian  bravo  with  whom  perjured  kings  bargained,  that 
they  might  revenge  on  the  man  of  the  people  that  which  the  people 
had  once  inflicted  on  one  of  themselves.  And  he  was  thy  guest, 
and  had  seated  himself  by  thy  hearth. 

Until  the  latest  times  the  boys  of  France  will  sing  and  tell  of 
the  terrible  hospitality  of  the  Bellerophon ;  and  when  those  songs 
of  mockery  and  tears  resound  across  the  strait,  there  will  be  a  blush 
on  the  cheeks  of  every  honorable  Briton.  But  a  day  will  come 
when  this  song  will  ring  thither,  and  there  will  be  no  Britannia  in 
existence — when  the  people  of  pride  will  be  humbled  to  the  earth, 
when  Westminster's  monuments  will  be  broken,  and  when  the 
royal  dust  which  they  inclosed  will  be  forgotten.  And  St..  Helena 
is  the  Holy  Grave,  whither  the  races  of  the  East  and  of  the  West 
will  make  their  pilgrimage  in  ships,  with  pennons  of  many  a  hue, 
and   their  hearts  will   grow   strong  with  great   memories  of   the 


HEINRICH  HEINE  2 1 63 

deeds  of  the  worldly  savior,  who  suffered  and  died  under  Sir  Hud- 
son Lowe,  as  it  is  written  in  the  evangelists,  Las  Casas,  O'Meara, 
and  Antommarchi. 

Strange !  A  terrible  destiny  has  already  overtaken  the  three 
greatest  enemies  of  the  Emperor.  Londonderry  has  cut  his  throat, 
Louis  XVI IL  has  rotted  away  on  his  throne,  and  Professor  Saal- 
feld  is  still,  as  before,  professor  in  Gottingen. 

From  «  Pictures  of  Travel. » 


2164 


HERMAN    LUDWIG    FERDINAND   VON    HELMHOLTZ 

(1821-1894) 

iHOUGH  chiefly  celebrated  for  his  discoveries  in  optics  and 
acoustics,  and  for  his  invention  of  the  ophthalmoscope,  Von 
Helmholtz  is  much  esteemed  for  his  essay's  on  scientific  and 
educational  topics.  His  lectures  to  his  classes  abound  in  eloquent 
passages,  but  he  made  beauty  of  style  a  minor  consideration  and  the 
defmition  of  principle  his  object.  He  was  born  August  31st,  1821,  at 
Potsdam,  where  in  1843  he  began  his  professional  life  as  an  army 
physician.  From  1849  to  1855,  he  was  professor  of  Physiology  at 
Konigsberg.  He  taught  Physiology  at  Heidelberg  from  1858  to  1871, 
and  held  the  chair  of  Physics  at  Berlin  during  the  latter  part  of  his 
life,  dying  at  Berlin,  September  8th,  1894.  Among  his  works  are 
^' The  Conservation  of  Energy,  >>  "The  Doctrine  of  Tone  Sensation,  >* 
and  «  The  Manual  of  Physiological  Optics.  >> 


UNIVERSITIES,  ENGLISH,  FRENCH,  AND   GERMAN 

WHILE  the  English  universities  give  but  little  for  the  endow- 
ment of  the  positions  of  approved  scientific  teachers,  and 
do  not  logically  apply  even  that  little  for  this  object,  they 
have  another  arrangement  which  is  apparently  of  great  promise 
for  scientific  study,  but  which  has  hitherto  not  effected  much; 
that  is,  the  institution  of  Fellowships.  Those  who  have  passed 
the  best  examinations  are  elected  as  Fellows  of  their  college, 
where  they  have  a  home,  and  along  with  this,  a  respectable  in- 
come, so  that  they  can  devote  the  whole  of  their  leisure  to  scien- 
tific pursuits.  Both  Oxford  and  Cambridge  have  each  more  than 
five  hundred  such  fellowships.  The  Fellows  may,  but  need  not 
act  as  tutors  for  the  students.  They  need  not  even  live  in  the 
university  town,  but  may  spend  their  stipends  where  they  like, 
and  in  many  cases  may  retain  the  Fellowship  for  an  indefinite 
period.  With  some  exceptions,  they  only  lose  it  in  case  they 
marry,  or  are  elected  to  certain  offices.  They  are  the  real  suc- 
cessors of  the  old  corporation  of  students,   by  and  for  which    the 


HERMAN   LUDWIG   FERDINAND   VON   HELMHOLTZ  2165 

university  was  founded  and  endowed.  But  however  beautiful  this 
plan  may  seem,  and  notwithstanding  the  enormous  sums  devoted 
to  it,  in  the  opinion  of  all  unprejudiced  Englishmen  it  does  but 
little  for  science;  manifestly  because  most  of  these  young  men, 
although  they  are  the  pick  of  the  students,  and  in  the  most  fav- 
orable conditions  possible  for  scientific  work,  have  in  their  student 
career  not  come  sufficiently  in  contact  with  the  living  spirit  of 
inquiry,  to  work  on  afterward  on  their  own  account,  and  with  their 
own  enthusiasm. 

In  certain  respects  the  English  universities  do  a  great  deal. 
They  bring  up  their  students  as  cultivated  men,  who  are  expected 
not  to  break  through  the  restrictions  of  their  political  and  eccle- 
siastical party,  and,  in  fact,  do  not  thus  break  through.  In  two  re- 
spects we  might  well  endeavor  to  imitate  them.  In  the  first 
place,  together  with  a  lively  feeling  for  the  beauty  and  youthful 
freshness  of  antiquity,  they  develop  in  a  high  degree  a  sense  for 
delicacy  and  precision  in  writing  which  shows  itself  in  the  way  in 
which  they  handle  their  mother  tongue.  I  fear  that  one  of  the 
weakest  sides  in  the  instruction  of  German  youth  is  in  this  direc- 
tion. In  the  second  place,  the  English  universities,  like  their 
schools,  take  greater  care  of  :he  bodily  health  of  their  students. 
They  live  and  work  in  airy,  spacious  buildings,  surrounded  by 
lawns  and  groves  of  trees;  they  find  much  of  their  pleasure  in 
games  which  excite  a  passionate  rivalry  in  the  development  of 
bodily  energy  and  skill,  and  which,  in  this  respect,  are  far  more 
efficacious  than  our  gymnastic  and  fencing  exercises.  It  must  not 
be  forgotten  that  the  more  young  men  are  cut  off  from  fresh  air 
and  from  the  opportunity  of  vigorous  exercise,  the  more  induced 
will  they  be  to  seek  an  apparent  refreshment  in  the  misuse  of  to- 
bacco and  of  intoxicating  drinks.  It  must  also  be  admitted  that  the 
English  universities  accustom  their  students  to  energetic  and  ac- 
curate work,  and  keep  them  up  to  the  habits  of  educated  society. 
The  moral  effect  of  the  more  rigorous  control  is  said  to  be  rather 
illusory. 

The  Scotch  universities  and  some  smaller  English  foundations 
of  more  recent  origin, —  University  College  and  King's  College  in 
London,  and  Owens  College  in  Manchester,— are  constituted  more 
on  the  German  and  Dutch  model. 

,  The  development  of  French  universities  has  been  quite  dif- 
ferent, and  indeed  almost  in  the  opposite  direction.  In  ac- 
cordance   with    the    tendency  of    the    French    to    throw  overboard 


2  1 66  HERMAN  LUDWIG  FERDINAND   VON   HELMHOLTZ 

everything-  of  historic  development  to  suit  some  rationalistic  the- 
ory, their  faculties  have  logically  become  purely  institutes  for  in- 
struction —  special  schools,  with  definite  regulations  for  the  course 
of  instruction,  developed  and  quite  distinct  from  those  institutions 
which  are  to  further  the  progress  of  science,  such  as  the  College 
de  France,  the  Jardin  des  Plantes,  and  the  Ecole  des  Etudes 
Superieures.  The  faculties  are  entirely  separated  from  one  an- 
other, even  when  they  are  in  the  same  town.  The  course  of 
study  is  definitely  prescribed,  and  is  controlled  by  frequent  ex- 
aminations. French  teaching  is  confined  to  that  which  is  clearly 
established,  and  transmits  this  in  a  well-arranged,  well-worked-out 
manner,  which  is  easily  intelligible,  and  does  not  excite  doubt 
nor  the  necessity  for  deeper  inquiry.  The  teachers  need  only 
possess  good  receptive  talents.  Thus  in  France  it  is  looked  upon 
as  a  false  step  when  a  young  man  of  promising  talent  takes  a 
professorship  in  a  faculty  in  the  provinces.  The  method  of  in- 
struction in  France  is  well  adapted  to  give  pupils,  of  even  mod- 
erate capacity,  sufficient  knowledge  for  the  routine  of  their  calling. 
They  have  no  choice  between  different  teachers,  and  they  swear 
in  verba  magistri;  this  gives  a  happy  self-satisfaction  and  free- 
dom from  doubts.  If  the  teacher  has  been  well  chosen,  this  is 
sufficient  in  ordinary  cases,  in  which  the  pupil  does  what  he  has 
seen  his  teacher  do.  It  is  only  unusual  cases  that  test  how  much 
actual  insight  and  judgment  the  pupil  has  acquired.  The  French 
people  are,  moreover,  gifted,  vivacious,  and  ambitious,  and  this 
corrects  many  defects  in  their  system  of  teaching. 

A  special  feature  in  the  organization  of  French  universities 
consists  in  the  fact  that  the  position  of  the  teacher  is  quite  in- 
dependent of  the  favor  of  his  hearers;  the  pupils  who  belong  to 
his  faculty  are  generally  compelled  to  attend  his  lectures,  and  the 
far  from  inconsiderable  fees  which  they  pay  flow  into  the  .  chest 
of  the  minister  of  education;  the  regular  salaries  of  the  univer- 
sity professors  are  defrayed  from  this  source;  the  state  gives  but 
an  insignificant  contribution  toward  the  maintenance  of  the  uni- 
versity. When,  therefore,  the  teacher  has  no  real  pleasure  in 
teaching,  or  is  not  ambitious  of  having  a  number  of  pupils,  he 
very  soon  becomes  indifferent  to  the  success  of  his  teaching,  and 
is  inclined  to  take  things  easily. 

Outside  the  lecture  rooms,  the  French  students  live  without 
control,  and  associate  with  young  men  of  other  callings,  without 
any  special  esprit  de  corps  or  common  feeling.     The  development 


HERMAN  LUDWIG  FERDINAND  VON   HELMHOLTZ  2167 

of  the  German  universities  differs  characteristically  from  these 
two  extremes.  Too  poor  in  their  own  possessions  not  to  be  com- 
pelled, with  increasing  demands  for  the  means  of  instruction, 
eagerly  to  accept  the  help  of  the  state,  and  too  weak  to  resist 
encroachments  upon  their  ancient  rights  in  times  in  which  modern 
states  attempt  to  consolidate  themselves,  the  German  universities 
have  had  to  submit  themselves  to  the  controlling  influence  of  the 
state.  Owing  to  this  latter  circumstance  the  decision  in  all  im- 
portant university  matters  has  in  principle  been  transferred  to 
the  state,  and  in  times  of  religious  or  political  excitement  this 
supreme  power  has  occasionally  been  unscrupulously  exerted. 
But  in  most  cases  the  states  which  were  working  out  their  own 
independence  were  favorably  disposed  toward  the  universities; 
they  required  intelligent  officials,  and  the  fame  of  their  country's 
university  conferred  a  certain  lustre  upon  the  government.  The 
ruling  officials  were,  moreover,  for  the  most  part,  students  of  the 
university;  they  remained  attached  to  it.  It  is  very  remarkable 
how  among  wars  and  political  changes  in  the  states  fighting  with 
the  decaying  empire  for  the  consolidation  of  their  young  sover- 
eignties, Vvrhile  almost  all  other  privileged  orders  were  destroyed, 
the  universities  of  Germany  saved  a  far  greater  nucleus  of  their 
internal  freedom  and  of  the  most  valuable  side  of  this  freedom, 
than  in  conscientious,  conservative  England,  and  than  in  France 
with  its  wild  chase  after  freedom. 

We  have  retained  the  old  conception  of  students,  as  that  of 
young  men  responsible  to  themselves,  striving  after  science  of 
their  own  free  will,  and  to  whom  it  is  left  to  arrange  their  own 
plan  of  studies  as  they  think  best.  If  attendance  on  particular 
lectures  was  enjoined  for  certain  callings, —  what  are  called  "com- 
pulsory lectures," — these  regulations  were  not  made  by  the  uni- 
versity, but  by  the  state,  which  was  afterward  to  admit  candidates 
to  these  callings.  At  the  same  time  the  students  had,  and  still 
have,  perfect  freedom  to  migrate  from  one  German  university  to 
another,  from  Dorpat  to  Zurich,  from  Vienna  to  Gratz;  and  in 
each  university  they  had  free  choice  among  the  teachers  of  the 
same  subject,  without  reference  to  their  position  as  ordinary  or 
extraordinary  professors,  or  as  private  docents.  The  students  are, 
in  fact,  free  to  acquire  any  part  of  their  instruction  from  books; 
it  is  highly  desirable  that  the  works  of  great  men  of  past  times 
should  form  an  essential  part  of  study. 


2  163  HERMAN   LUDWIG   FERDINAND   VON   HELMHOLTZ 

Outside  the  university  there  is  no  control  over  the  proceedings 
of  the  students,  so  long  as  they  do  not  come  in  collision  with  the 
guardians  of  public  order.  Beyond  these  cases  the  only  con- 
trol to  which  they  are  subject  is  that  of  their  colleagues,  which 
prevents  them  from  doing  anything  which  is  repugnant  to  the 
feeling  of  honor  of  their  own  body.  The  universities  of  the  Mid- 
dle Ages  formed  definite  close  corporations,  with  their  own  juris- 
diction, which  extended  to  the  right  over  life  and  death  of  their 
own  members.  As  they  lived  for  the  most  part  on  foreign  soil, 
it  was  necessary  to  have  their  own  jurisdiction,  partly  to  protect 
the  members  from  the  caprices  of  foreign  judges,  partly  to  keep 
up  that  degree  of  respect  and  order,  within  the  society,  which 
was  necessary  to  secure  the  continuation  of  the  rights  of  hospi- 
tality on  a  foreign  soil;  and  partly,  again,  to  settle  disputes  among 
the  members.  In  modern  times  the  remains  of  this  academic  jur- 
isdiction have  by  degrees  been  completely  transferred  to  the  or- 
dinary courts,  or  will  be  so  transferred;  but  it  is  still  necessary 
to  maintain  certain  restrictions  on  a  union  of  strong  and  spirited 
young  men,  which  guarantee  the  peace  of  their  fellow-students 
and  that  of  the  citizens.  In  cases  of  collision  this  is  the  object 
of  the  disciplinary  power  of  the  university  authorities.  This  ob- 
ject, however,  must  be  mainly  attained  by  the  sense  of  honor  of 
the  students;  and  it  must  be  considered  fortunate  that  German 
students  have  retained  a  vivid  sense  of  corporate  union,  and  of 
what  is  intimately  connected  therewith,  a  requirement  of  hon- 
orable behavior  in  the  individual.  I  am  by  no  means  prepared 
to  defend  every  individual  reputation  in  the  Codex  of  students' 
honor;  there  are  many  Middle- Age  remains  among  them  which 
were  better  swept  away,  — but  that  can  only  be  done  by  the  stu- 
dents themselves. 

For  most  foreigners  the  uncontrolled  freedom  of  German  stu- 
dents is  a  subject  of  astonishment;  the  more  so  as  it  is  usually 
some  obvious  excrescences  of  this  freedom  which  first  meet  their 
eyes;  they  are  unable  to  understand  how  young  men  can  be  so 
left  to  themselves  without  the  greatest  detriment.  The  German 
looks  back  to  his  student  life  as  to  his  golden  age ;  our  literature 
and  our  poetry  are  full  of  expressions  of  this  feeling.  Nothing 
of  this  kind  is  but  even  faintly  suggested  in  the  literature  of  other 
European  peoples.  The  German  student  alone  has  this  perfect 
joy  in  the  time,  in  which,  in  the  first  delight  in  youthful  responsi- 


HERMAN  LUDWIG  FERDINAND   VON   HELMHOLTZ  2i6.j 

bility,  and  freed  more  immediately  from  having  to  work  for  ex- 
traneous interests,  he  can  devote  himself  to  the  task  of  striving 
after  the  best  and  noblest  which  the  human  race  has  hitherto 
been  able  to  attain  in  knowledge  and  in  speculation,  closely  joined 
in  friendly  rivalry  with  a  large  body  of  associates  of  similar 
aspirations,  and  in  daily  mental  intercourse  with  teachers  from 
whom  he  learns  something  of  the  workings  of  the  thoughts  of 
independent  minds. 

When  I  think  of  my  own  student  life,  and  of  the  impression 
which  a  man  like  Johannes  Miiller,  the  physiologist,  made  upon 
us,  I  must  place  a  very  high  value  upon  this  latter  point.  Any 
one  who  has  once  come  in  contact  with  one  or  more  men  of  the 
first  rank  must  have  had  his  whole  mental  standard  altered  for 
the  rest  of  his  life.  Such  intercourse  is,  moreover,  the  most  in- 
teresting that  life  can  offer. 

From  an  address  at  the  Frederick  William 
University  of  Berlin   1877. 


31 70 


SIR   ARTHUR    HELPS 

(1813-1875) 

*IR  Arthur  Helps  was  born  in  Surrey,  England,  July  loth, 
181 3.  After  occupying  various  positions  in  the  English  Civil 
Service,  he  became  clerk  of  the  privy  council,  a  position 
in  which  he  won  the  friendship  of  Queen  Victoria  and  found  leisure 
to  write  lives  of  Las  Casas,  Columbus,  Cortez,  and  Pizarro,  as  well  as 
several  romances  and  his  later  volumes  of  essays.  The  essays  to 
which  he  owes  his  celebrity,  however,  appeared  in  1847  and  1851,  as 
*' Friends  in  Council,"  —  a  series  of  discussions  among  *<Milverton,* 
<*Ellesmere,"  and  "Dunsford,"  three  friends  who  read  essays  to  each 
other  and  comment  upon  them.  Their  dialogue  has  been  universally 
rejected  in  extracting  from  this  book,  but  such  essays  as^^The  Art  of 
Living  with  Others  *^  will  continue  to  be  printed  and  reprinted  as  long 
as  men  are  human  enough  to  need  the  help  of  those  who  know  their 
weakness  because  of  sharing  it.  Helps  died  at  London,  March  7th, 
1875. 


ON   THE  ART   OF    LIVING  WITH    OTHERS 

THE  ^^  Iliad"  for  war;  the  ^*  Odyssey"  for  wandering;  but  where 
is  the  great  domestic  epic  ?  Yet  it  is  but  commonplace  to 
say  that  passions  may  rage  round  a  tea  table,  which  would 
not  have  misbecome  men  dashing  at  one  another  in  war  chariots; 
and  evolutions  of  patience  and  temper  are  performed  at  the  fire- 
side, worthy  to  be  compared  with  the  Retreat  of  the  Ten  Thou- 
sand. Men  have  worshiped  some  fantastic  being  for  living  alone 
in  a  wilderness;  but  social  martyrdoms  place  no  saints  upon  the 
calendar. 

We  may  blind  ourselves  to  it  if  we  like,  but  the  hatreds  and 
disgusts  that  there  are  behind  friendship,  relationship,  service, 
and,  indeed,  proximity  of  all  kinds,  is  one  of  the  darkest  spots 
upon  earth.  The  various  relations  of  life,  which  bring  people 
together,  cannot,  as  we  know,  be  perfectly  fulfilled  except  in  a 
state  where  there  will,  perhaps,  be  no  occasion  for  any  of  them. 
It  is  no  harm,  however,  to  endeavor  to  see   whether  there   are 


SIR  ARTHUR  HELPS  2171 

any  methods  which  may  make  these  relations  in  the  least  degree 
more  harmonious  now. 

In  the  first  place,  if  people  are  to  live  happily  together,  they 
must  not  fancy,  because  they  are  thrown  together  now,  that  all  their 
lives  have  been  exactly  similar  up  to  the  present  time,  that  they 
started  exactly  alike,  and  that  they  are  to  be  for  the  future  of 
the  same  mind.  A  thorough  conviction  of  the  difference  of  men 
is  the  great  thing  to  be  assured  of  in  social  knowledge;  it  is  to 
life  what  Newton's  law  is  to  astronomy.  Sometimes  men  have  a 
knowledge  of  it  with  regard  to  the  world  in  general;  they  do 
not  expect  the  outer  world  to  agree  with  them  in  all  points,  but 
are  vexed  at  not  being  able  to  drive  their  own  tastes  and  opin- 
ions into  those  they  live  with.  Diversities  distress  them.  They 
will  not  see  that  there  are  many  forms  of  virtue  and  wisdom. 
Yet  we  might  as  well  say,  ^*  Why  all  these  stars;  why  this  dif- 
ference ;  why  not  all  one  star  ?  ** 

Many  of  the  rules  for  people  living  together  in  peace  follow 
from  the  above.  For  instance,  not  to  interfere  unreasonably  with 
others,  not  to  ridicule  their  tastes,  not  to  question  and  requestion 
their  resolves,  not  to  indulge  in  perpetual  comment  on  their  pro- 
ceedings, and  to  delight  in  their  having  other  pursuits  than  ours, 
are  all  based  upon  a  thorough  perception  of  the  simple  fact  that 
they  are   not  we. 

Another  rule  for  living  happily  with  others  is  to  avoid  having 
stock  subjects  of  disputation.  It  mostly  happens,  when  people  live 
much  together,  that  they  come  to  have  certain  set  topics,  around 
which,  from  frequent  dispute,  there  is  such  a  growth  of  angry 
words,  mortified  vanity,  and  the  like,  that  the  original  subject  of 
difference  becomes  a  standing  subject  for  quarrel;  and  there  is 
a  tendency  in  all  minor  disputes  to  drift  down  to  it. 

Again,  if  people  wish  to  live  well  together,  they  must  not  hold 
too  much  to  logic,  and  suppose  that  everything  is  to  be  settled 
by  sufficient  reason.  Dr.  Johnson  saw  this  clearly  with  regard  to 
married  people,  when  he  said,  «  Wretched  would  be  the  pair  above 
all  names  of  wretchedness,  who  should  be  doomed  to  adjust  by 
reason  every  morning  all  the  minute  detail  of  a  domestic  day." 
But  the  application  should  be  much  more  general  than  he  made  it. 
There  is  no  time  for  such  reasonings,  and  nothing  that  is  worth 
then?.  And  when  we  recollect  how  two  lawyers,  or  two  politicians, 
can  go  on  contending,  and  that  there  is  no  end  of  one-sided  rea- 
soning on  any  subject,  we  shall  not  be  sure  that  such  contention 


2172  X  SIR  ARTHUR  HELPS 

is  the  best  mode  for  arriving  at  truth.  But  certainly  it  is  not 
the  way  to  arrive  at  good  temper. 

If  you  would  be  loved  as  a  companion  avoid  unnecessary 
criticism  upon  those  with  whom  you  live.  The  number  of  peo- 
ple who  have  taken  out  judges'  patents  for  themselves  is  very 
large  in  any  society.  Now  it  would  be  hard  for  a  man  to  live 
with  another  who  was  always  criticizing  his  actions,  even  if  it 
were  kindly  and  just  criticism.  It  would  be  like  living  between 
the  glasses  of  a  microscope.  But  these  self-elected  judges,  like 
their  prototypes,  are  very  apt  to  have  the  persons  they  judge 
brought  before  them  in  the  guise  of  culprits. 

One  of  the  most  provoking  forms  of  the  criticism  above  alluded 
to  is  that  which  may  be  called  criticism  over  the  shoulder.  "  Had 
I  been  consulted,'^  <*  Had  you  listened  to  me,**  <*  But  you  always 
will,  *  and  such  short  scraps  of  sentences  may  remind  many  of  us 
of  dissertations  which  we  have  suffered  and  inflicted,  and  of  which 
we  cannot  call  to  mind  any  soothing  effect. 

Another  rule  is,  not  to  let  familiarity  swallow  up  all  courtesy. 
Many  of  us  have  a  habit  of  saying  to  those  with  whom  we  live 
such  things  as  we  say  about  strangers  behind  their  backs.  There 
is  no  place,  however,  where  real  politeness  is  of  more  value  than 
where  we  mostly  think  it  would  be  superfluous.  You  may  say 
more  truth,  or  rather  speak  out  more  plainly,  to  your  associates, 
but  not  less  courteously  than  you  do  to  strangers. 

Again,  we  must  not  expect  more  from  the  society  of  our 
friends  and  companions  than  it  can  give,  and  especially  must  not 
expect  contrary  things.  It  is  something  arrogant  to  talk  of 
traveling  over  other  minds  (mind  being,  for  what  we  know,  in- 
finite) ;  but  still  we  become  familiar  with  the  upper  views,  tastes, 
and  tempers  of  our  associates.  And  it  is  hardly  in  man  to  esti- 
mate justly  what  is  familiar  to  him.  In  traveling  along  at  night, 
as  Hazlitt  says,  we  catch  a  glimpse  into  cheerful-looking  rooms 
with  light  blazing  in  them_,  and  we  conclude  involuntarily  how 
happy  the  inmates  must  be.  Yet  there  is  heaven  and  hell  in 
those  rooms  —  the  same  heaven  and  hell  that  we  Iiave  known  in 
others. 

There  are  two  great  classes  of  promoters  of  social  happiness 
—  cheerful  people  and  people  who  have  some  reticence.  The 
latter  are  more  secure  benefits  to  society  even  than  the  former. 
They  are  nonconductors  of  all  the  heats  and  animosities  around 
them.     To    have    peace    in    a    house,  or    a    family,  or   any    social 


SIR  ARTHUR   HELPS  2173 

circle,  the  members  of  it  must  beware  of  passing  on  hasty  and 
uncharitable  speeches,  which,  the  whole  of  the  context  seldom 
being  told,  is  often  not  conveying,  but  creating  mischief.  They 
must  be  very  good  people  to  avoid  doing  this;  for  let  human 
nature  say  what  it  will,  it  likes  sometimes  to  look  on  at  a  quar- 
rel, and  that  not  altogether  from  ill-nature,  but  from  a  love  of 
excitement,  for  the  same  reason  that  Charles  II.  liked  to  attend 
the  debates  in  the  Lords,  because  they  were  "  as  good  as  a  play.  ''^ 

We  come  now  to  the  consideration  of  temper,  which  might 
have  been  expected  to  be  treated  first.  But  to  cut  off  the  means 
and  causes  of  bad  temper  is,  perhaps,  of  as  much  importance  as 
any  direct  dealing  with  the  temper  itself.  Besides,  it  is  probable 
that  in  small  social  circles  there  is  more  suffering  from  unkind- 
ness  than  ill-temper.  Anger  is  a  thing  that  those  who  live  under 
us  suffer  more  from  than  those  who  live  with  us.  But  all  the 
forms  of  ill-humor  and  sour-sensitiveness,  which  especially  belong- 
to  equal  intimacy  (though,  indeed,  they  are  common  to  all),  are 
best  to  be  met  by  impassiveness.  When  two  sensitive  person'^ 
are  shut  up  together,  they  go  on  vexing  each  other  with  a  re- 
productive irritability.  But  sensitive  and  hard  people  get  on  well 
together.  The  supply  of  temper  is  not  altogether  out  of  the  usual 
laws  of  supply  and  demand. 

Intimate  friends  and  relations  should  be  careful  when  they 
go  out  into  the  world  together,  or  admit  others  to  their  own 
circle,  that  they  do  not  make  a  bad  use  of  the  knowledge  which 
they  have  gained  of  each  other  by  their  intimacy.  Nothing  is 
more  common  than  this,  and  did  it  not  mostly  proceed  from  mere 
carelessness,  it  would  be  superlatively  ungenerous.  You  seldom 
need  wait  for  the  written  life  of  a  man  to  hear  about  his  weak- 
nesses, or  what  are  supposed  to  be  such,  if  you  know  his  intimate 
friends,  or  meet  him  in  company  with  them. 

Lastly,  in  conciliating  those  we  live  with,  it  is  most  surely 
done,  not  by  consulting  their  interests,  nor  by  giving  way  to  their 
opinions,  so  much  as  by  not  offending  their  tastes.  The  most  re- 
fined part  of  us  lies  in  this  region  of  taste,  which  is  perhaps  a 
result  of  our  whole  being  rather  than  a  part  of  our  nature,  and, 
at  any  rate,  is  the  region  of  our  most  subtle  sympathies  and  an- 
tipathies. 

It  may  be  said  that  if  the  great  principles  of  Christianity  were 
attended  to,  all  such  rules,  suggestions,  and  observations  as  the 
above  would  be  needless.     True  enough !     Great  principles  are  at 


2174 


SIR  ARTHUR   HELPS 


the  bottom  of  all   things;   but   to  apply  them  to  daily  life,  many 

little   rules,   precautions,  and   insights   are   needed.      Such   things 

hold  a  middle  place  between  real  life  and  principles,  as  form  does 

between  matter  and   spirit,  molding   the  one  and  expressing  the 

other. 

Complete.     From  «  Friends  in  Council. » 


GREATNESS 

You  cannot  substitute  any  epithet  for  great,  when  you  are  talk- 
ing of  great  men.  Greatness  is  not  general  dexterity  carried 
to  any  extent,  nor  proficiency  in  any  one  subject  of  human 
endeavor.  There  are  great  astronomers,  great  scholars,  great  paint- 
ers, even  great  poets  who  are  very  far  from  great  men.  Great- 
ness can  do  without  success  and  with  it.  William  is  greater  in 
his  retreats  than  Marlborough  in  his  victories.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  uniformity  of  Caesar's  success  does  not  dull  his  greatness. 
Greatness  is  not  in  the  circumstances,  but  in  the  man. 

What  does  this  greatness  then  consist  in  ?  Not  in  a  nice  bal- 
ance of  qualities,  purposes,  and  powers.  That  will  make  a  man 
happy,  a  successful  man,  a  man  always  in  his  right  depth.  Nor 
does  it  consist  in  absence  of  errors.  We  need  only  glance  back 
at  any  list  that  can  be  made  of  great  men,  to  be  convinced  of  that. 
Neither  does  greatness  consist  in  energy,  though  often  accom- 
panied by  it.  Indeed,  it  is  rather  the  breadth  of  the  waters  than 
the  force  of  the  current  that  we  look  to,  to  fulfill  our  idea  of  great- 
ness. There  is  no  doubt  that  energy  acting  upon  a  nature  en- 
dowed with  the  qualities  that  we  sum  up  in  the  word  Cleverness, 
and  directed  to  a  few  clear  purposes,  produces  a  great  effect,  and 
may  sometimes  be  mistaken  for  greatness.  If  a  man  is  mainly 
bent  upon  his  own  advancement,  it  cuts  many  a  difficult  knot  of 
policy  for  him,  and  gives  a  force  and  distinctness  to  his  mode  of 
going  on  which  looks  grand.  The  same  happens  if  he  has  one 
pre-eminent  idea  of  any  kind,  even  though  it  should  be  a  narrow 
one.  Indeed,  success  in  life  is  mostly  gained  by  unity  of  purpose; 
whereas  greatness  often  fails  by  reason  of  its  having  manifold 
purposes,  but  it  does  not  cease  to  be  greatness  on  that  account. 
If  greatness  can  be  shut  up  in  qualities,  it  will  be  found  to 
consist  in  courage  and  in  openness  of  mind  and  soul.  These  quali- 
ties may  not  seem  at  first  to  be  so  potent.     But  see  what  growth 


SIR  ARTHUR  HELPS  217$ 

there  is  in  them.  The  education  of  a  man  of  open  mind  is  never 
ended.  Then,  with  openness  of  soul,  a  man  sees  some  way  into 
all  other  souls  that  come  near  him,  feels  with  them,  has  their  ex- 
perience, is  in  himself  a  people.  Sympathy  is  the  universal  sol- 
vent. Nothing  is  understood  without  it.  The  capacity  of  a  man, 
at  least  for  understanding,  may  almost  be  said  to  vary  according 
to  his  powers  of  sympathy.  Again,  what  is  there  that  can  coun- 
teract selfishness  like  sympathy?  Selfishness  may  be  hedged  in 
by  minute  watchfulness  and  self-denial,  but  it  is  counteracted  by 
the  nature  being  encouraged  to  grow  out  and  fix  its  tendrils  upon 
foreign  objects. 

The  immense  defect  that  want  of  sympathy  is  may  be  strik- 
ingly seen  in  the  failure  of  the  many  attempts  that  have  been 
made  in  all  ages  to  construct  the  Christian  character,  omitting 
sympathy.  It  has  produced  numbers  of  people  walking  up  and 
down  one  narrow  plank  of  self-restraint,  pondering  over  their  own 
merits  and  demerits,  keeping  out,  not  the  world  exactly,  but  their 
fellow-creatures  from  their  hearts,  and  caring  only  to  drive  their 
neighbors  before  them  on  this  plank  of  theirs,  or  to  push  them 
headlong.  Thus,  with  many  virtues,  and  much  hard  work  at  the 
formation  of  character,  we  have  had  splendid  bigots  or  censorious 
small  people. 

But  sympathy  is  warmth  and  light,  too.  It  is,  as  it  were, 
the  moral  atmosphere  connecting  all  animated  natures.  Putting 
aside,  for  a  moment,  the  large  differences  that  opinions,  language, 
and  education  make  between  men,  look  at  the  innate  diversity  of 
character.  Natural  philosophers  were  amazed  when  they  thought 
they  had  found  a  new-created  species.  But  what  is  each  man 
but  a  creature  such  as  the  world  has  not  before  seen  ?  Then 
think  how  they  pour  forth  in  multitudinous  masses,  from  princes 
delicately  nurtured  to  little  boys  on  scrubby  commons,  or  in  dark 
cellars.  How  are  these  people  to  be  understood,  to  be  taught  to 
understand  each  other,  but  by  those  who  have  the  deepest  sym- 
pathies with  all  ?  There  cannot  be  a  great  man  without  large  sym- 
pathy. There  may  be  men  who  play  loud-sounding  parts  in  life 
without  it,  as  on  the  stage,  where  kings  and  great  people  some- 
times enter  who  are  only  characters  of  secondary  import  —  deputy 
great  men.  But  the  interest  and  the  instruction  lie  with  thoso 
who  have  to  feel  and  suffer  most. 

Add  courage  to  this  openness  we  have   been  considering,   and 
you  have  a  man  who  can  own  himself  in  the  wrong,  can  forgive, 


iiyS  SIR  ARTHUR  HELPS 

can  trust,  can  adventure,  can,  in  short,  use  all  the  means  that  in- 
sight and  sympathy  endow  him  with. 

I  see  no  other  essential  characteristics  in  the  greatness  of  na- 
tions than  there  are  in  the  greatness  of  individuals.  Extraneous 
circumstances  largely  influence  nations  as  individuals,  and  make 
a  larger  part  of  the  show  of  the  former  than  of  the  latter;  as  we 
are  wont  to  consider  no  nation  great  that  is  not  great  in  extent 
or  resources,  as  well  as  in  character.  But  of  two  nations,  equal 
in  other  respects,  the  superiority  must  belong  to  the  one  which 
excels  in  courage  and  openness  of  mind  and  soul. 

Again,  in  estimating  the  relative  merits  of  different  periods  of 
the  world,  we  must  employ  the  same  tests  of  greatness  that  we 
use  to  individuals.  To  compare,  for  instance,  the  present  and 
the  past.  What  astounds  us  most  in  the  past  is  the  wonderful 
intolerance  and  cruelty:  a  cruelty  constantly  turning  upon  the 
inventors;  an  intolerance  provoking  ruin  to  the  thing  it  would 
foster.  The  most  admirable  precepts  are  thrown  from  time  to 
time  upon  this  caldron  of  human  affairs,  and  oftentimes  they 
only  seem  to  make  it  blaze  the  higher.  We  find  men  devoting 
the  best  part  of  their  intellects  to  the  invariable  annoyance  and 
persecution  of  their  fellows.  You  might  think  that  the  earth 
brought  forth  with  more  abundant  fruitfulness  in  the  past  than 
now,  seeing  that  men  found  so  much  time  for  cruelty,  but  that 
you  read  of  famines  and  privations  which  these  latter  days  can- 
not equal.  The  recorded  violent  deaths  amount  to  millions. 
And  this  is  but  a  small  part  of  the  matter.  Consider  the  modes 
of  justice;  the  use  of  torture,  for  instance.  What  must  have 
been  the  blinded  state  of  the  wise  persons  (wise  for  their  day) 
who  used  torture  ?  Did  they  ever  think  themselves,  "  What 
should  we  not  say  if  we  were  subjected  to  this  ?  '*  Many  times 
they  must  really  have  desired  to  get  at  the  truth;  and  such  was 
their  mode  of  doing  it.  Now,  at  the  risk  of  being  thought  a 
^*  laudator  '^  of  time  present,  I  would  say  here  is  the  element  of 
greatness  we  have  made  progress  in.  We  are  more  open  in 
mind  and  soul.  We  have  arrived  (some  of  us  at  least)  at  the 
conclusion  that  men  may  honestly  differ  without  offense.  We 
have  learned  to  pity  each  other  more.  There  is  a  greatness  in 
modern  toleration  which  our  ancestors  knew  not. 

Then  comes  the  other  element  of  greatness,  courage.  Have 
we  made  progress  in  that  ?  This  is  a  much  more  dubious  ques- 
tion.    The  subjects  of  terror  vary  so  much  in  different  times  that 


SIR  ARTHUR  HELPS  2177 

it  is  difficult  to  estimate  the  different  degrees  of  courage  shown 
in  resisting  them.  Men  fear  public  opinion  now  as  they  did  in 
former  times  the  Star  Chamber;  and  those  awful  goddesses,  Ap- 
pearances, are  to  us  what  the  Fates  were  to  the  Greeks.  It  is 
hardly  possible  to  measure  the  courage  of  a  Modern  against  that 
of  an  Ancient;  but  I  am  unwilling  to  believe  but  that  enlighten- 
ment must  strengthen  courage. 

The  application  of  the  tests  of  greatness,  as  in  the  above  in- 
stance, is  a  matter  of  detail  and  of  nice  appreciation,  as  to  the 
results  of  which  men  must  be  expected  to  differ  largely:  the  tests 
themselves  remain  invariable  —  openness  of  nature  to  admit  the 
light  of  love  and  reason,  and  courage  to  pursue  it. 

Complete.     From  "Friends  in  Council.* 


HOW  HISTORY  SHOULD  BE   READ 

{SUPPOSE   that   many  who   now  connect  the    very  word   History 
with  the  idea  of  dullness,  would  have  been  fond  and  diligent 

students  of  history  if  it  had  had  fair  access  to  their  minds. 
But  they  were  set  down  to  read  histories  which  were  not  fitted 
to  be  read  continuously,  or  by  any  but  practiced  students.  Some 
such  works  are  mere  framework,  a  name  which  the  author  of 
the  "  Statesman  '^  applies  to  them ;  very  good  things,  perhaps,  for 
their  purpose,  but  that  is  not  to  invite  readers  to  history.  You 
might  almost  as  well  read  dictionaries  with  a  hope  of  getting  a 
succinct  and  clear  view  of  language.  When,  in  any  narration, 
there  is  a  constant  heaping  up  of  facts,  made  about  equally  sig- 
nificant by  the  way  of  telling  them,  a  hasty  delineation  of  char- 
acters, and  all  the  incidents  moving  on  as  in  the  fifth  act  of  a 
confused  tragedy,  the  mind  and  memory  refuse  to  be  so  treated; 
and  the  reading  ends  in  nothing  but  a  very  slight  and  inaccurate 
acquaintance  with  the  mere  husk  of  the  history.  You  cannot 
epitomize  the  knowledge  that  it  would  take  years  to  acquire  into 
a  few  volumes  that  may  be  read  in  as  many  weeks. 

The  most  likely  way  of  attracting  men's  attention  to  histor- 
ical subjects  will  be  by  presenting  them  with  small  portions  of 
history,  of  great  interest,  thoroughly  examined.  This  may  give 
them  the  habit  of  applying  thought  and  criticism  to  historical 
matters. 
VI— 137 


2178  SIR  ARTHUR  HELPS 

For,  as  it  is,  how  are  people  interested  in  history,  and  how 
do  they  master  its  multitudinous  assemblage  of  facts?  Mostly, 
perhaps,  in  this  way.  A  man  cares  about  some  one  thing,  or 
person,  or  event,  and  plunges  into  its  history,  really  wishing  to 
master  it.  This  pursuit  extends;  other  points  of  research  are 
taken  up  by  him  at  other  times.  His  researches  begin  to  inter- 
sect. He  finds  a  connection  in  things.  The  texture  of  his  his- 
toric acquisitions  gradually  attains  some  substance  and  color;  and 
so  at  last  he  begins  to  have  some  dim  notions  of  the  myriads  of 
men  who  came,  and  saw,  and  did  not  conquer  —  only  struggled 
on  as  they  best  might,  some  of  them  —  and  are  not. 

When  we  are  considering  how  history  should  be  read,  the  main 
thing  perhaps  is,  that  the  person  reading   should   desire  to  know 
what  he  is  reading  about,  not  merely  to  have  read  the  books  that 
tell  of  it.     The  most  elaborate  and   careful   historian  must  omit, 
or  pass  lightly  over,  many  points  of  his  subject.      He  writes  for 
all  readers,  and  cannot  indulge  private  fancies.     But  history  has 
its  particular  aspect  for  each  man;  there  must  be  portions  which 
he  may  be  expected  to  dwell  upon.     And  everywhere,  even  where 
the  history  is  most  labored,  the  reader  should  have  something  of 
the  spirit  of  research  which  was  needful  for  the  writer, —  if  only  so 
much  as  to  ponder  well  the  words  of  the  writer.     That  man  reads 
history,  or  anything  else,  at  great  peril  of  being  thoroughly  mis- 
led, who  has  no  perception  of  any  truthfulness  except  that  which 
can  be  fully  ascertained  by  reference   to  facts;  who  does  not  in 
the  least  perceive  the  truth,  or  the  reverse,  of  a  writer's  style,  of 
his  epithets,  of  his  reasoning,  of  his  mode  of  narration.     In  life, 
our  faith  in  any  narration  is  much  influenced  by  the  personal  ap- 
pearance, voice,  and   gesture  of   the   person   narrating.     There   is 
some  part  of  all  these  things  in  his  writing;  and  you  must  look  into 
that  well  before  you  can  know  what  faith  to  give  him.     One  man 
may  make  mistakes  in  names,  and  dates,  and  references,  and  yet 
have  a  real  substance  of  truthfulness  in  him,  a  wish  to  enlighten 
himself  and  then  you.     Another  may  not  be  wrong  in  his  facts, 
but   have  a  declamatory  or   sophistical  vein  in   him,  much   to  be 
guarded  against.     A  third  may  be  both  inaccurate  and  untruth- 
ful, caring  not  so  much   for  anything  as  to  write  his  book.     And 
if  the  reader  cares  only  to  read  it,  sad  work  they  make  between 
them  of  the  memories  of  former  days. 

In  studying  history,  it  must   be  borne  in  mind  that  a  knowl- 
edge is  necessary  of   the  state  of  manners,  customs,  wealth,  arts, 


SIR  ARTHUR  HELPS  2179 

and  science  at  the  different  periods  treated  of.  The  text  of  civil 
history  requires  a  context  of  this  knowledge  in  the  mind  of  the 
reader.  For  the  same  reason,  some  of  the  main  facts  of  the  geo- 
graphy of  the  countries  in  question  should  be  present  to  him.  If 
we  are  ignorant  of  these  aids  to  history,  all  history  is  apt  to  seem 
alike  to  us.  It  becomes  merely  a  narrative  of  men  of  our  own  time, 
in  our  own  country;  and  then  we  are  prone  to  expect  the  same 
views  and  conduct  from  them  that  we  do  from  our  contempo- 
raries. It  is  true  that  the  heroes  of  antiquity  have  been  repre- 
sented on  the  stage  in  bagwigs,  and  the  rest  of  the  costume  of 
our  grandfathers;  but  it  was  the  great  events  of  their  lives  that 
were  thus  told  —  the  crisis  of  their  passions  —  and  when  we  are 
contemplating  the  representation  of  great  passions  and  their  con- 
sequences, all  minor  imagery  is  of  little  moment.  In  a  long- 
drawn  narrative,  however,  the  more  we  have  in  our  minds  of 
what  concerned  the  daily  life  of  the  people  we  read  about,  the 
better.  And  in  general  it  may  be  said  that  history,  like  travel- 
ing, gives  a  return  in   proportion  to   the   knowledge    that    a  man 

brings  to  it 

Complete.     Number  II.,  on  «  History, »  from 
«  Friends  in  Council.® 


2i8o 


JOHANN   GOTTFRIED   VON   HERDER 

(1 744-1 803) 

Ierder's  greatest  work  was  in  making  Goethe  possible.  Ger- 
many of  the  eighteenth  century  despised  its  own  simplicity, 
and  stood  shamed  before  the  pseudo-classicism  of  the  de- 
cadent French  monarchy.  Herder  taught  German  youth  to  look  for 
the  highest  literary  excellence,  not  in  triolets  and  rondeaus,  or  even 
in  tragedies  written  in  lilting  twelve-syllabled  iambics  supposed  to 
represent  the  Athenian  masters,  but  in  the  treasured  ballads  and 
songs  of  the  common  people,  in  Shakespeare,  in  Homer,  in  the  Psalms 
of  David,  and  in  the  book  of  Job.  He  taught  Germany  to  understand 
the  merits  of  the  Scotch  heroic  ballads,  which  are  the  finest  in  the 
literature  of  Europe  and  are  so  nearly  German  that  when  « Bonny 
George  Campbell »  was  translated  into  German,  Longfellow  mistook  it 
for  a  German  «lied»  and  retranslated  it  into  admirable  English  verse 
—not  very  far  removed  from  the  original  Scotch.  By  cultivating  the 
taste  for  the  strong  and  natural  simplicities  of  primitive  literature. 
Herder  educated  the  generation  of  German  singers  who,  with  Goethe 
and  Schiller  at  their  head,  taught  Longfellow  to  avoid  the  stiffness  of 
the  English  « classical »  school.  So  great  was  Herder's  activity  and 
so  wide  its  range,  that  at  his  death,  December  i8th,  1803.  he  left  ma- 
terial which,  when  collected  in  the  Stuttgart  edition  of  his  works 
(1827-30),  made  sixty  volumes.  Those  who  cannot  afford  to  read 
them  all  should  by  no  means  miss  his  «  Stimmen  der  Volker  in  Lie- 
dern»  (Folk  Songs),  and  his  essays  on  the  "Spirit  of  Hebrew  Poetry.» 


THE   SUBLIMITY   OF   PRIMITIVE   POETRY 
(Euthyphron  and  Alcephron  converse  on  the  poetry  of  Job) 

EUTHYPHRON  —  Evcry  age  must  make  its  poetry  consistent  with  its 
ideas  of  the  great  system  of  being,  or  if  not,  must  at  least  be 
assured  of  producing  a  greater  effect  by  its  poetical  fictions 
than  systematic  truth  could  secure  to  it.  And  may  not  this  often  be 
the  case  ?  I  have  no  doubt  that  from  the  systems  of  Copernicus 
and  Newton,  of  BufEon  and  Priestley,  as  elevated  as  poetry  may 
be  made,  as  from  the  most  simple  and  childlike  views  of  nature. 


JOHANN   GOTTFRIED  VON   HERDER  2i8l 

But  why  have  we  no  such  poetry  ?  Why  is  it,  that  the  simple 
pathetic  fables  of  ancient  or  unlearned  tribes  always  affect  us 
more  than  these  mathematical,  physical,  and  metaphysical  nice- 
ties ?  Is  it  not  because  the  people  of  those  times  wrote  poetry 
with  more  lively  apprehensions,  because  they  conceived  ideas  of 
all  things,  including  God  himself,  under  analogous  forms,  reduced 
the  universe  to  the  shape  of  a  house,  and  animated  all  that  it 
contains  with  human  passions,  with  love  and  hatred  ?  The  first 
poet,  who  can  do  the  same  in  the  universe  of  Buffon  and  New- 
ton, will,  if  he  is  so  disposed,  produce  with  truer,  at  least  with  more 
comprehensive  ideas,  the  effect  which  they  accomplished  with 
their  limited  analogies  and  poetic  fables.  Would  that  such  a  poet 
were  already  among  us!  But  so  long  as  that  is  not  the  case,  let 
us  not  turn  to  ridicule  the  genuine  beauties  in  the  poetry  of  an- 
cient nations,  because  they  understood  not  our  systems  of  natural 
philosophy  and  metaphysics.  Many  of  their  allegories  and  per- 
sonifications contain  more  imaginative  power,  and  more  sensuous 
truth,  than  voluminous  systems  —  and  the  power  of  touching  the 
heart  speaks  for  itself. 

A  Icephron  —  This  power  of  producing  emotion,  however,  seems 
to  me  not  to  belong  in  so  high  a  degree  to  the  poetry  of  nature. 

E. —  The  more  gentle  and  enduring  sentiments  of  poetry  at 
least  are  produced  by  it,  and  more  even  than  by  any  other.  Can 
there  be  any  more  beautiful  poetry  than  God  himself  has  ex- 
hibited to  us  in  the  works  of  creation  ?  Poetry,  which  he  spreads 
fresh  and  glowing  before  us  with  every  revolution  of  days  and 
of  seasons  ?  Can  the  language  of  poetry  accomplish  anything 
more  affecting  than  with  brevity  and  simplicity  to  unfold  to  us 
in  its  measure  what  we  are  and  what  we  enjoy  ?  We  live  and 
have  our  being  in  this  vast  temple  of  God;  our  feelings  and 
thoughts,  our  sufferings  and  our  joys  are  all  from  this  as  their 
source.  A  species  of  poetry  that  furnishes  me  with  eyes  to  per- 
ceive and  contemplate  the  works  of  creation  and  myself,  to  con- 
sider them  in  their  order  and  relation,  and  to  discover  through 
all  the  traces  of  infinite  love,  wisdom,  and  power,  to  shape  the 
whole  with  the  eye  of  fancy,  and  in  words  suited  to  their  pur- 
pose—  such  a  poetry  is  holy  and  heavenly.  What  wretch,  in  the 
greatest  tumult  of  his  passions,  in  walking  under  a  starry  heaven, 
would  not  experience  imperceptibly  and  even  against  his  will  a 
soothing  influence  from  the  elevating  contemplation  of  its  silent, 


2 1 82  JOHANN  GOTTFRIED  VON  HERDER 

unchangeable,  and  everlasting  splendors  ?  Suppose  at  such  a  mo- 
ment  there  occurs  to  his  thoughts  the  simple  language  of  God, 
"  Canst  thou  bind  together  the  bands  of  the  Pleiades, "  —  is  it  not 
as  if  God  himself  addressed  the  words  to  him  from  the  starry 
firmament  ?  Such  an  effect  has  the  true  poetry  of  nature,  the 
fair  interpreter  of  the  nature  of  God.  A  hint,  a  single  word, 
in  the  spirit  of  such  poetry,  often  suggests  to  the  mind  extended 
scenes;  nor  does  it  merely  bring  their  quiet  pictures  before  the 
eye  in  their  outward  lineaments,  but  brings  them  home  to  the 
sympathies  of  the  heart,  especially,  when  the  heart  of  the  poet 
himself  is  tender  and  benevolent,  and  it  can  hardly  fail  to  be  so. 

A. —  Will  the  heart  of  the  poet  of  nature  always  exhibit  this 
character  ? 

E. —  Of  the  great  and  genuine  poet  undoubtedly,  otherwise  he 
may  be  an  acute  observer,  but  could  not  be  a  refined  and  pow- 
erful expositor  of  nature.  Poetry,  that  concerns  itself  with  the 
deeds  of  men,  often  in  a  high  degree  debasing  and  criminal,  that 
labors,  with  lively  and  affecting  apprehensions,  in  the  impure  re- 
cesses of  the  heart,  and  often  for  no  very  worthy  purpose,  may 
corrupt  as  well  the  author  as  the  reader.  The  poetry  of  divine 
things  can  never  do  this.  It  enlarges  the  heart,  while  it  expands 
the  view;  renders  this  serene  and  contemplative,  that  energetic, 
free,  and  joyous.  It  awakens  a  love,  an  interest,  and  a  sympathy 
for  all  that  lives.  It  accustoms  the  understanding  to  remark  on 
all  occasions  the  laws  of  nature,  and  guides  our  reason  to  the 
right  path.  This  is  especially  true  of  the  descriptive  poetry  of 
the  Orientals. 

A. —  Do  you  apply  the  remark  to  the  chapter  of  Job,  of  which 
we  were  speaking? 

E. —  Certainly.  It  would  be  childish  to  hunt  for  the  system 
of  physics  implied  in  the  individual  representations  of  poetry,  or 
to  aim  at  reconciling  it  with  the  system  of  our  own  days,  and 
thus  show  that  Job  had  already  learned  to  think  like  our  nat- 
ural philosophers;  yet  the  leading  idea,  that  the  universe  is  the 
palace  of  the  Divine  Being,  where  he  is  himself  the  director  and 
disposer,  where  everything  is  transacted  according  to  unchange- 
able and  eternal  laws,  with  a  providence,  that  continually  ex- 
tends to  the  minutest  concern,  with  benevolence  and  judgment 
—  this,  I  say,  we  must  acknowledge  to  be  great  and  enno- 
bling.    It   is    set    forth,  too,  by    examples,  in   which    everything 


JOHANN  GOTTFRIED  VON  HERDER  2183 

manifests  unity  of  purpose,  and  subordination  to  the  combined 
whole.  The  most  wonderful  phenomena  come  before  us,  as  the 
doings  of  an  ever-active  and  provident  father  of  his  household. 
Show  me  a  poem  which  exhibits  our  system  of  physics,  our  dis- 
coveries and  opinions  respecting  the  formation  of  the  world,  and 
the  changes  that  it  undergoes,  under  as  concise  images,  as  ani- 
mated personifications,  with  as  suitable  expositions,  and  a  plan 
comprising  as  much  unity  and  variety  for  the  production  of  ef- 
fect. But  do  not  forget  the  three  leading  qualities,  of  which  I 
have  spoken,  animation  in  the  objects  for  awakening  the  senses, 
interpretation  of  nature,  for  the  heart,  a  plan  in  the  poem,  as  there 
is  in  creation,  for  the  understanding.  The  last  requisite  altogether 
fails  in  most  of  our  descriptive  poets. 

A. —  You  require,  I  fear,  what  is  impossible.  How  little  plan 
are  we  able  to  comprehend  in  the  scenes  of  nature  ?  The  king- 
dom of  the  all-powerful  mother  of  all  things  is  so  vast,  her  prog- 
ress so  slow,  her  prospective  views  so  endless  — 

E. —  That  therefore  a  human  poem  must  be  so  vast,  so  slow 
in  progfress,  and  so  incomprehensible  ?  Let  him,  to  whom  nature 
exhibits  no  plan,  no  unity  of  purpose,  hold  his  peace,  nor  ven- 
ture to  give  her  expression  in  the  language  of  poetry.  Let  him 
speak,  for  whom  she  has  removed  the  veil  and  displayed  the  true 
expression  of  her  features.  He  will  discover  in  all  her  works 
connection,  order,  benevolence,  and  purpose.  His  own  poetical 
creation,  too,  like  that  creation  which  inspires  his  imagination, 
will  be  a  true  Kosmos,  a  regular  work,  with  plan,  outlines,^  mean- 
ing, and  ultimate  design,  and  commend  itself  to  the  understand- 
ing as  a  whole,  as  it  does  to  the  heart  by  its  individual  thoughts 
and  interpretations  of  nature,  and  to  the  sense  by  the  animation 
of  its  objects.  In  nature,  all  things  are  connected,  and  for  the 
view  of  man  are  connected  by  their  relation  to  what  is  human. 
The  periods  of  time,  as  days  and  years,  have  their  relation  to 
the  age  of  man.  Countries  and  climates  have  a  principle  of  unity 
in  the  one  race  of  man,  ages  and  worlds  in  the  one  eternal  cause, 
one  God,  one  Creator.  He  is  the  eye  of  the  universe,  giving  ex- 
pression to  its  otherwise  boundless  void,  and  combining  in  a  har- 
monious union  the  expression  of  all  its  multiplied  and  multiform 
features.  Here  we  are  brought  back  again  to  the  East,  for  the 
Orientals,  in  their  descriptive  poetry,  however  poor  or  rich  it  may 
be  judged,  secure,  first  of  all,  that  unity,  which  the  understanding 


2184  JOHANN   GOTTFRIED   VON   HERDER 

demands.  In  all  the  various  departments  of  nature  they  behold 
the  God  of  the  heavens  and  of  the  earth.  This  no  Greek,  nor 
Celt,  nor  Roman  has  ever  done,  and  how  far  in  this  respect  is 
Lucretius  behind  Job  and  David! 

From  the  « Spirit  of  Hebrew  Poetry, » 
translated  by  J.  Marsh. 


MARRIAGE   AS   THE   HIGHEST    FRIENDSHIP 

How  truly  said  one  of  his  friend,  *  Thy  love  to  me  surpassed 
the  love  of  women !  '^  Creation  knows  nothing  nobler  than 
two  voluntarily  and  indissolubly  united  hands, —  two  hearts 
and  lives  that  have  voluntarily  become  one.  It  matters  not 
whether  these  two  hands  are  male  or  female,  or  of  both  sexes. 
It  is  a  proud  but  irrational  prejudice  on  the  part  of  men,  that 
only  they  are  capable  of  friendship.  Woman  is  often  tenderer, 
truer,  firmer,  more  golden-pure  in  that  relation,  than  many  a  weak, 
unfeeling,  impure,  masculine  soul.  Where  there  is  want  of  truth, 
—  where  there  is  vanity,  rivalry,  heedlessness,  there  friendship  in 
either  sex  is  impossible.  Marriage,  likewise,  should  be  friendship; 
and  woe!  if  it  is  not,  if  it  is  only  love  and  desire.  To  a  noble 
woman,  it  is  sweet  to  suffer  for  her  husband,  as  well  as  to  rejoice 
with  him,  to  feel  that  she  is  honored,  esteemed,  and  happy  in 
him  and  he  in  her.  The  common  education  of  their  children  is 
the  beautiful,  leading  aim  of  their  friendship,  which  sweetly  re- 
wards them  both,  even  in  gray  old  age.  They  stand  there,  and 
will  continue  to  stand  like  two  trees  with  branches  interlocked, 
begirt  with  a  garland  of  youthful  green, —  saplings  and  twigs.  In 
all  cases,  a  life,  in  common,  is  the  marrow  of  true  friendship. 
Mutual  unlocking  and  sharing  of  hearts,  intense  joy  in  each  other, 
sympathy  in  each  other's  sufferings,  counsel,  consolation,  effort, 
mutual  aid, —  these  are  its  diagnostics,  its  delights,  its  interior 
recompense.  What  delicate  secrets  in  friendship!  Refinements 
of  feeling,  as  if  the  soul  of  the  one  were  directly  conscious  of 
the  soul  of  the  other,  and,  anticipating,  discerned  the  thoughts 
of  that  soul  as  clearly  as  its  own!  And,  assuredly,  the  soul  has 
sometimes  power  thus  to  discern  thoughts  and  to  .dwell  imme- 
diately and  intimately  in  the  heart  of  another.  There  are  mo- 
ments of  sympathy,  even  in  thoughts  without  the  slightest  external 


JOHANN   GOTTFRIED   VON    HERDER  2185 

occasion,  which  indeed  no  psychology  can  explain,  but  which  ex- 
perience teaches  and  confirms.  There  are  mutual,  simultaneous 
recollections  of  one  another  —  even  at  a  distance  —  on  the  part  of 
absent  friends,  which  are  often  of  the  most  wonderful,  overpower- 
ing kind.  And,  indeed,  if  ever  the  soul  possesses  the  mysterious 
power  to  act  directly,  without  organs,  on  another  soul,  where 
would  such  action  be  more  natural  than  in  the  case  of  friends  ? 
This  relation  is  purer,  and  therefore,  assuredly,  mightier  also  than 
love.  For  if  love  will  lift  itself  up  to  the  strength  and  duration 
of  eternity,  it  must  first  purify  itself  from  coarse  sensuality, 
and  become  true  and  genuine  friendship.  How  seldom  does  it 
arrive  at  this!  It  destroys  itself  or  destroys  its  object  with  pene- 
trating, devouring  flames;  and  both  the  loving  and  the  loved  lie 
there,  as  it  were,  a  heap  of  ashes.  But  the  glow  of  friendship  is 
pure,  refreshing,  human  warmth.  The  two  flames  upon  one  altar 
play  into  each  other,  and  as  in  sport,  lift  and  bear  one  another 
aloft,  and  often,  in  the  melancholy  hour  of  separation,  they  soar 
rejoicing,  and  united,  and  victorious,  upward  to  the  land  of  the 
purest  union,  of  truest,  inseparable  friendship. 

From  «Love  and  Self.» 


2i86 


SIR  JOHN  HERSCHEL 

(1792-1871) 

^iR  John  Frederick  William  Herschel  was  born  near  Windsor, 
England,  March  7th,  1792.  He  became  one  of  the  most 
^  celebrated  astronomers  of  modern  times,  overcoming  what  is 
perhaps  the  greatest  possible  disadvantage  a  young  man  can  have, — 
that  of  having  a  father  so  great  that  it  seems  at  once  absurd  and  irrever- 
ent to  attempt  to  equal  him..  Yet  the  younger  Herschel  did  his  work 
so  well  that  when  the  achievements  of  the  elder  are  summed  up,  it  is 
said,  «As  an  explorer  of  the  heavens  he  had  only  one  rival  —  his 
son!>>  Besides  his  technical  works  on  astronomy  and  physics,  Sir 
John  Herschel  wrote  a  volume  of  «  Familiar  Letters  on  Scientific  Sub- 
jects»  (1866),  which  are  frequently  admirable  in  manner,  as  well  as  in 
matter.     He  died  at  CoUingwood,  England,  May  nth,  1871. 


SCIENCE   AS  A   CIVILIZER 

THE  difference  of  the  degrees  in  which  the  individuals  of  a 
great  community  enjoy  the  good  things  of  life  has  been  a 
theme  of  declamation  and  discontent  in  all  ages;  and  it  is 
doubtless  our  paramount  duty,  in  every  state  of  society,  to  alle- 
viate the  pressure  of  the  purely  evil  part  of  this  distribution  as 
much  as  possible,  and,  by  all  the  means  we  can  devise,  secure 
the  lower  links  in  the  chain  of  society  from  dragging  in  dishonor 
and  wretchedness;  but  there  is  a  point  of  view  in  which  the  pic- 
ture is  at  least  materially  altered  in  its  expression.  In  compar- 
ing society  on  its  present  immense  scale  with  its  infant  or  less 
developed  state,  we  must  at  least  take  care  to  enlarge  every  fea- 
ture in  the  same  proportion.  If,  on  comparing  the  very  lowest 
states  in  civilized  and  savage  life,  we  admit  a  difficulty  in  decid- 
ing to  which  the  preference  is  due,  at  least  in  every  superior 
grade,  we  cannot  hesitate  a  moment;  and  if  we  institute  a  similar 
comparison  in  every  different  stage  of  its  progress,  we  cannot 
fail  to  be  struck  with  the  rapid  rate  of  dilatation  which  every 
degree  upward  of  the  scale,  so  to  speak,  exhibits,  and  which,  in 


SIR  JOHN  HERSCHEL  2187 

an  estimate  of  averages,  g-ives  an  immense  preponderance  to  the 
present  over  every  former  condition  of  mankind,  and,  for  aught 
we  can  see  to  the  contrary,  will  place  succeeding  generations  in 
the  same  degree  of  superior  relation  to  the  present  that  this 
holds  to  those  passed  away.  Or,  we  may  put  the  same  proposi- 
tion in  other  words,  and,  admitting  the  existence  of  every  inferior 
grade  of  advantage  in  a  higher  state  of  civilization  which  sub- 
sisted in  the  preceding,  we  shall  find,  first,  that,  taking  state  for 
state,  the  proportional  numbers  of  those  who  enjoy  the  higher 
degrees  of  advantage  increases  with  a  constantly  accelerated  ra- 
pidity as  society  advances;  and,  second,  that  the  superior  extrem- 
ity of  the  scale  is  constantly  enlarging  by  the  addition  of  new 
degrees.  The  condition  of  a  European  prince  is  now  as  far  su- 
perior, in  the  command  of  real  comforts  and  conveniences,  to 
that  of  one  in  the  Middle  Ages,  as  that  to  the  condition  of  one 
of  his  own  dependants. 

The  advantages  conferred  by  the  augmentation  of  our  phys- 
ical resources  through  the  medium  of  increased  knowledge  and 
improved  art  have  this  peculiar  and  remarkable  property  —  that 
they  are  in  their  nature  diffusive,  and  cannot  be  enjoyed  in  any 
exclusive  manner  by  a  few.  An  Eastern  despot  may  extort  the 
riches  and  monopolize  the  art  of  his  subjects  for  his  own  per- 
sonal use;  he  may  spread  around  him  an  unnatural  splendor  and 
luxury,  and  stand  in  strange  and  preposterous  contrast  with  the 
general  penury  and  discomfort  of  his  people;  he  may  glitter  in 
jewels  of  gold  and  raiment  of  needlework;  but  the  wonders  of 
well  contrived  and  executed  manufacture  which  we  use  daily, 
and  the  comforts  which  have  been  invented,  tried,  and  improved 
upon  by  thousands,  in  every  form  of  domestic  convenience,  and 
for  every  ordinary  purpose  of  life,  can  never  be  enjoyed  by  him. 
To  produce  a  state  of  things  in  which  the  physical  advantages 
of  -civilized  life  can  exist  in  a  high  degree,  the  stimulus  of  in- 
creasing comforts  and  constantly  elevated  desires  must  have  been 
felt  by  millions;  since  it  is  not  in  the  power  of  a  few  individuals 
to  create  that  wide  demand  for  useful  and  ingenious  applications, 
which  alone  can  lead  to  great  and  rapid  improvements,  unless 
backed  by  that  arising  from  the  speedy  diffusion  of  the  same  ad- 
vantages among  the  mass  of  mankind. 

If  this  be  true  of  physical  advantages,  it  applies  with  still 
greater    force    to    intellectual.      Knowledge   can   neither    be   ade- 


2 1 88  SIR  JOHN   HERSCHEL 

quately  cultivated  nor  adequately  enjoyed  by  a  few;  and  al- 
though the  conditions  of  our  existence  on  earth  may  be  such  as 
to  preclude  an  abundant  supply  of  the  physical  necessities  of  all 
who  may  be  born,  there  is  no  such  law  of  nature  in  force  against 
that  of  our  intellectual  and  moral  wants.  Knowledge  is  not,  like 
food,  destroyed  by  use,  but  rather  augmented  and  perfected.  It 
requires  not,  perhaps,  a  greater  certainty,  but  at  least  a  con- 
firmed authority  and  a  probable  duration,  by  universal  assent ; 
and  there  is  no  body  of  knowledge  so  complete  but  that  it  ma}' 
acquire  accession,  or  so  free  from  error  but  that  it  may  receive 
correction  in  passing  through  the  minds  of  millions.  Those  who 
admire  and  love  knowledge  for  its  own  sake  ought  to  wish  to 
see  its  elements  made  accessible  to  all,  were  it  only  that  they 
may  be  the  more  thoroughly  examined  into,  and  more  effectually 
developed  in  their  consequences,  and  receive  that  ductility  and 
plastic  quality  which  the  pressure  of  minds  of  all  descriptions, 
constantly  molding  them  to  their  purposes,  can  alone  bestow. 
But  to  this  end  it  is  necessary  that  it  should  be  divested,  as  far 
as  possible,  of  artificial  difficulties,  and  stripped  of  all  such  techni- 
calities as  tend  to  place  it  in  the  light  of  a  craft  and  a  mystery, 
inaccessible  without  a  kind  of  apprenticeship.  Science,  of  course, 
like  everything  else,  has  its  own  peciiliar  terms,  and,  so  to  speak, 
its  idioms  of  language;  and  these  it  would  be  unwise,  were  it 
even  possible,  to  relinquish:  but  everything  that  tends  to  clothe 
it  in  a  strange  and  repulsive  garb,  and  especially  everything  that, 
to  keep  up  an  appearance  of  superiority  in  its  professors  over  the 
rest  of  mankind,  assumes  an  unnecessary  guise  of  profundity  and 
obscurity,  should  be  sacrificed  without  mercy.  Not  to  do  this  is 
deliberately  to  reject  the  light  which  the  natural  unencumbered 
good  sense  of  mankind  is  capable  of  throwing  on  every  subject, 
even  in  the  elucidation  of  principles;  but  where  principles  are  to 
be  applied  to  practical  uses,  it  becomes  absolutely  necessary;  as 
all  mankind  have  then  an  interest  in  their  being  so  familiarly 
understood,  that  no  mistakes  shall  arise  in  their  application. 

The  same  remark  applies  to  arts.  They  cannot  be  perfected 
till  their  whole  processes  are  laid  open,  and  their  language  sim- 
plified and  rendered  universally  intelligible.  Art  is  the  applica- 
tion of  knowledge  to  a  practical  end.  If  the  knowledge  be  merely 
accumulated  experience,  the  art  is  empirical;  but  if  it  be  expe- 
rience   reasoned    upon    and   brought    under    general   principles,  it 


SIR  JOHN   HERSCHEL  2 1 89 

assumes  a  higher  character,  and  becomes  a  scientific  art.  In  the 
progress  of  mankind  from  barbarism  to  civilized  life,  the  arts 
necessarily  precede  science.  The  wants  and  cravings  of  onr  ani- 
mal constitution  must  be  satisfied;  the  comforts  and  some  of  the 
luxuries  of  life  must  exist.  Somethi'ig  must  be  given  to  the 
vanity  of  show,  and  more  to  the  pride  of  power;  the  round  of 
baser  pleasures  must  have  been  tried  and  found  insufficient  be- 
fore intellectual  ones  can  gain  a  footing;  and  when  they  have 
obtained  it,  the  delights  of  poetry  and  its  sister  arts  still  take 
precedence  of  contemplative  enjoyments,  and  the  severer  pursuits 
of  thought;  and  when  these  in  time  begin  to  charm  from  their 
novelty,  and  sciences  begin  to  arise,  they  will  at  first  be  those  of 
pure  speculation.  The  mind  delights  to  escape  from  the  tram- 
mels which  had  bound  it  to  earth,  and  luxuriates  in  its  newly-found 
powers.  Hence,  the  abstractions  of  geometry — the  properties 
of  numbers — the  movements  of  the  celestial  spheres — whatever 
is  abstruse,  remote,  and  extramundane  —  become  the  first  objects 
of  infant  science.  Applications  come  late;  the  arts  continue 
slowly  progressive,  but  their  realm  remains  separated  from  that 
of  science  by  a  wide  gulf  which  can  only  be  passed  by  a  power- 
ful spring.  They  form  their  own  language  and  their  own  con- 
ventions, which  none  but  artists  can  understand.  The  whole 
tendency  of  empirical  art  is  to  bury  itself  in  technicalities,  and 
to  place  its  pride  in  particular  short  cuts  and  mysteries  known 
only  to  adepts;  to  surprise  and  astonish  by  results,  but  conceal 
processes.  The  character  of  science  is  the  direct  cont^a^}^  It 
delights  to  lay  itself  open  to  inquiry;  and  is  not  satisfied  with  its 
conclusions  till  it  can  make  the  road  to  them  broad  and  beaten; 
and  in  its  applications  it  preserves  the  same  character;  its  whole 
aim  being  to  strip  away  all  technical  mystery,  to  illuminate  every 
dark  recess,  with  a  view  to  improve  them  on  rational  principles. 
It  would  seem  that  a  union  of  two  qualities  almost  opposite  to 
each  other  —  a  going  forth  of  the  thoughts  in  two  directions,  and 
a  sudden  transfer  of  ideas  from  a  remote  station  in  one  to  an 
equally  distant  one  in  the  other  —  is  required  to  start  the  first 
idea  of  applying  science.  Among  the  Greeks  this  point  was  at- 
tained by  Archimedes,  but  attained  too  late,  on  the  eve  of  that 
great  eclipse  of  science  which  was  destined  to  continue  for  nearly 
eighteen  centuries,  till  Galileo  in  Italy,  and  Bacon  in  England, 
at    once  dispelled    the  darkness;  the   one   by   his   inventions   and 


2190  SIR  JOHN   HERSCHEL 

discoveries,  the   other   by  the  irresistible  force  of  his  arguments 
and  eloquence. 

Finally,  the  improvement  effected  in  the  condition  of  mankind 
by  advances  in  physical  science  as  applied  to  the  useful  purposes 
of  life,  is  very  far  from  being  limited  to  their  direct  consequences 
in  the  more  abundant  supply  of  their  physical  wants,  and  the  in- 
crease of  our  comforts.  Great  as  these  benefits  are,  they  are  yet 
but  steps  to  others  of  a  still  higher  kind.  The  successful  results 
of  our  experiments  and  reasonings  in  natural  philosophy,  and  the 
incalculable  advantages  which  experience,  systematically  consulted 
and  dispassionately  reasoned  on,  has  conferred  in  matters  purely 
physical,  tend  of  necessity  to  impress  something  of  the  well- 
weighed  and  progressive  character  of  science  on  the  more  com- 
plicated conduct  of  our  social  and  moral  relations.  It  is  thus 
that  legislation  and  politics  become  gradually  regarded  as  experi- 
mental sciences,  and  history,  not,  as  formerly,  the  mere  record  of 
tyrannies  and  slaughters,  which,  by  immortalizing  the  execrable 
actions  of  one  age,  perpetuates  the  ambition  of  committing  them 
in  every  succeeding  one,  but  as  the  archive  of  experiments,  suc- 
cessful and  unsuccessful,  gradually  accumulating  towards  the 
solution  of  the  grand  problem  —  how  the  advantages  of  govern- 
ment are  to  be  secured  with  the  least  possible  inconvenience  to 
the  governed.  The  celebrated  apothegm,  that  nations  never 
profit  by  experience,  becomes  yearly  more  and  more  untrue. 
Political  economy,  at  least,  is  found  to  have  sound  principles, 
founded  in  the  moral  and  physical  nature  of  man,  which,  how- 
ever lost  sight  of  in  particular  measures  —  however  even  tem- 
porarily controverted  and  borne  down  by  clamor  —  have  yet  a 
stronger  and  stronger  testimony  borne  to  them  in  each  succeed- 
ing generation,  by  which  they  must,  sooner  or  later,  prevail.  The 
idea  once  conceived  and  verified,  that  great  and  noble  ends  are 
to  be  achieved,  by  which  the  condition  of  the  whole  human 
species  shall  be  permanently  bettered,  by  bringing  into  exercise  a 
sufficient  quantity  of  sober  thoughts,  and  by  a  proper  adaptation 
of  means,  is  of  itself  sufficient  to  set  us  earnestly  on  reflecting 
what  ends  are  truly  great  and  noble,  either  in  themselves,  or  as 
conducive  to  others  of  a  still  loftier  character;  because  we  are 
not  now,  as  heretofore,  hopeless  of  attaining  them.  It  is  not  now 
equally  harmless  and  insignificant,  whether  we  are  right  or  wrong, 
since  we  are  no  longer  supinely  and   helplessly  carried  down  the 


SIR  JOHN  HERSCHEL  2 191 

Stream  of  events,  but  feel  ourselves  capable  of  buffeting  at  least 
with  its  waves,  and  perhaps  of  riding  triumphantly  over  them: 
for  why  should  we  despair  that  the  reason  which  has  enabled  us 
to  subdue  all  nature  to  our  purposes  should  (if  permitted  and 
assisted  by  the  providence  of  God)  achieve  a  far  more  difficult 
conquest,  and  ultimately  find  some  means  of  enabling  the  col- 
lective wisdom  of  mankind  to  bear  down  those  obstacles  which 
individual  short-sightedness,  selfishness,  and  passion,  oppose  to  all 
improvements,  and  by  which  the  highest  hopes  are  continually 
blighted,  and  the  fairest  prospects  marred  ? 

From  a  « Discourse  on  the  Study  of 
Natural  Philosophy.  >> 


THE   TASTE   FOR   READING 

IF  I  WERE  to  pray  for  a  taste  which  should  stand  me  in  stead 
under  every  variety  of  circumstances,  and  be  a  source  of 
happiness  and  cheerfulness  to  me  through  life,  and  a  shield 
against  its  ills,  however  things  might  go  amiss,  and  the  world 
frown  upon  me,  it  would  be  a  taste  for  reading.  I  speak  of  it, 
of  course,  only  as  a  wordly  advantage,  and  not  in  the  slightest 
degree  as  superseding  or  derogating  from  the  higher  office  and 
surer  and  stronger  panoply  of  religious  principles  —  but  as  a 
taste,  an  instrument,  and  a  mode  of  pleasurable  gratification. 
Give  a  man  this  taste,  and  the  means  of  gratifying  it,  and  you 
can  hardly  fail  of  making  a  happy  man,  unless,  indeed,  you  put 
into  his  hands  a  most  perverse  selection  of  books.  You  place 
him  in  contact  with  the  best  society  in  every  period  of  history 
—  with  the  wisest,  the  wittiest  —  with  the  tenderest,  the  bravest, 
and  the  purest  characters  that  have  adorned  humanity.  You  make 
him  a  denizen  of  all  nations  —  a  contemporary  of  all  ages.  The 
world  has  been  created  for  him.  It  is  hardly  possible  but  the 
character  should  take  a  higher  and  better  tone  from  the  constant 
habit  of  associating  in  thought  with  a  class  of  thinkers,  to  say 
the  least  of  it,  above  the  average  of  humanity.  It  is  morally 
impossible  but  that  the  manners  should  take  a  tinge  of  good 
breeding  and  civilization  from  having  constantly  before  one's 
eyes  the  way  in  which  the  best-bred  and  the  best-informed  men 
have  -talked  and  conducted  themselves  in  their  intercourse  with  each 


219:?  SIR   JOHN    HERSCHEL 

other.  There  is  a  gentle  but  perfectly  irresistible  coercion  in  a 
habit  of  reading,  well-directed,  over  the  whole  tenor  of  a  man's 
character  and  conduct,  which  is  not  the  less  effectual  because  it 
works  insensibly,  and  because  it  is  really  the  last  thing  he  dreams 
of.  It  cannot,  in  short,  be  better  summed  up  than  in  the  words 
of  the  Latin  poet, — 

^^Emollit  mores,  nee  sinit  esse  feros.  >^ 

It  civilizes  the  conduct  of  men  —  and  suffers  them  not  to  remain 
barbarous. 


2193 


KARL   HILLEBRAND 

(1829-1! 


(ARL  HiLLEBRAND,  One  of  the  expatriated  revolutionists  of  1848, 
to  whom  the  civilization  of  Germany  and  the  world  is  so 
largely  indebted,  was  born  at  Giessen,  Germany,  September 
17th,  1829.  Imprisoned  at  the  age  of  twenty  for  taking  part  in  the 
Baden  movement  against  absolutism,  he  escaped  to  France,  where  he 
continued  his  studies  and  graduated  at  the  Sorbonne.  In  1863  he  was 
appointed  professor  of  Foreign  Languages  at  Douai.  He  became  a 
master  of  French  and  wrote  several  of  his  works  in  it,  but  when  the 
Franco-Prussian  War  began  he  found  that  his  exile  had  not  made  him 
a  Frenchman.  He  solved  the  problem  of  choice  between  his  native 
and  his  adopted  country  by  removing  to  Italy  where  he  lived  until 
his  death,  October  19th,  1884.  Among  his  works  are  « Lectures  on 
German  Thought, »  « On  Good  Comedy, »  « Contemporary  Prussia, » 
"Times,  People,  and  Men, »  and  a  «  History  of  France  from  the  Acces- 
sion  of    Louis   Philippe    to  the  Fall  of  Napoleon  III.» 


GOETHE'S  VIEW   OF   ART   AND   NATURE 

MAN  is  the  last  and  highest  link  in  nature;  his  task  is  to  un- 
derstand what  she  aims  at  in  him  and  then    to   fulfill    her 
intentions.       This    view   of   Herder   was   Goethe's   starting 
point  in  the  formation  of  his  <*  Weltanschammg,*^  or  general  view 
of  things. 

All  the  world  ( says  one  of  the  characters  in  "  Wilhelm  Meis- 
ter  '* )  lies  before  us,  like  a  vast  quarry  before  the  architect.  He 
does  not  deserve  the  name,  if  he  does  not  compose  with  these  ac- 
cidental natural  materials  an  image  whose  source  is  in  his  mind, 
and  if  he  does  not  do  it  with  the  greatest  possible  economy,  so- 
lidity, and  perfection.  All  that  we  find  outside  of  us,  nay,  within 
us,  is  object-matter;  but  deep  within  us  lives  also  a  power  cap- 
able of  giving  an  ideal  form  to  this  matter.  This  creative 
power  allows  us  no  rest  till  we  have  produced  that  ideal  form  in 
one  or  the  other  way,  either  without  us  in  finished  works,  or  in 

our  own  life. 
VI— 138 


2194  KARL  HILLEBRAND 

Here  we  already  have  in  germ  Schiller's  idea  that  life  ought 
to  be  a  work  of  art.  But  how  do  we  achieve  this  task,  continu- 
ally impeded  as  we  are  by  circumstances  and  by  our  fellow- 
creatures,  who  will  not  always  leave  us  in  peace  to  develop  our 
individual  characters  in  perfect  conformity  with  nature  ?  In  our  re- 
lations with  our  neighbor,  Goethe  (like  Lessing  and  Wieland,  Kant 
and  Herder,  and  all  the  great  men  of  his  and  the  preceding  age,  in 
England  and  France  as  well  as  in  Germany)  recommended  ab- 
solute toleration  not  only  of  opinions,  but  also  of  individualities, 
particularly  those  in  which  Nature  manifests  herself  "  undefiled.  ^* 
As  to  circumstances,  which  is  only  another  name  for  fate,  he 
preached  and  practiced  resignation.  At  every  turn  of  our  life,  in 
fact,  we  meet  with  limits;  our  intelligence  has  its  frontiers  which 
bar  its  way;  our  senses  are  limited,  and  can  only  embrace  an  in- 
finitely small  part  of  nature;  few  of  our  wishes  can  be  fulfilled; 
privation  and  sufferings  await  us  at  every  moment.  ^^  Privation 
is  thy  lot,  privation !  That  is  the  eternal  song  which  resounds  at 
every  moment,  which,  our  whole  life  through,  each  hour  sings 
hoarsely  to  our  ears !  *^  laments  Faust.  What  remains  then  for 
man  ?  ^^  Everything  cries  to  us  that  we  must  resign  ourselves. " 
"  There  are  few  men,  however,  who,  conscious  of  the  privations 
and  sufferings  in  store  for  them  in  life,  and  desirous  to  avoid  the 
necessity  of  resigning  themselves  anew  in  each  particular  case, 
have  the  courage  to  perform  the  act  of  resignation  once  for  all  *^ ; 
who  say  to  themselves  that  there  are  eternal  and  necessary  laws 
to  which  we  must  submit,  and  that  we  had  better  do  it  without 
grumbling;  who  ^*  endeavor  to  form  principles  which  are  not  lia- 
ble to  be  destroyed,  but  are  rather  confirmed  by  contact  with  re- 
ality.* In  other  words,  when  man  has  discovered  the  laws  of 
nature,  both  moral  and  physical,  he  must  accept  them  as  the  lim- 
its of  his  actions  and  desires;  he  must  not  wish  for  eternity  of 
life  or  inexhaustible  capacities  of  enjo3^ment,  understanding,  and 
acting,  any  more  than  he  wishes  for  the  moon.  For  rebellion 
against  these  laws  must  needs  be  an  act  of  impotency  as  well  as 
of  deceptive  folly.  By  resignation,  the  human  soul  is  purified; 
for  thereby  it  becomes  free  of  selfish  passions  and  arrives  at  that 
intellectual  superiority  in  which  the  contemplation  and  under- 
standing of  things  give  sufficient  contentment,  without  making  it 
needful  for  man  to  stretch  out  his  hands  to  take  possession  of 
them:  a  thought  which  Goethe's  friend,  Schiller,  has  magnificently 
developed  in  his  grand  philosophical  poems.    Optimism  and  pessi- 


KARL  HILLEBRAND  2 1 95 

mism  disappear  at  once  as  well  as  fatalism;  the  highest  and  most 
refined  intellect  again  accepts  the  world,  as  children  and  ignorant 
toilers  do,  as  a  given  necessity.  He  does  not  even  think  the 
world  could  be  otherwise,  and  within  its  limits  he  not  only  en- 
joys and  suffers,  but  also  works  gaily,  trying,  like  Horace,  to  sub- 
ject things  to  himself,  but  resigned  to  submit  to  them,  when  they 
are  invincible.  Thus  the  simple  Hellenic  existence  which,  con- 
trary to  Christianity,  but  according  to  nature,  accepted  the  pres- 
ent without  ceaselessly  thinking  of  death  and  another  world,  and 
acted  in  that  present  and  in  the  circumstances  allotted  to  each 
by  fate,  without  wanting  to  overstep  the  boundaries  of  nature, 
would  revive  again  in  our  modern  world,  and  free  us  forever 
from  the  torment  of  unaccomplished  wishes  and  of  vain  terrors. 

The  sojourn  in  Italy  during  which  Goethe  lived  outside  the 
struggle  for  life,  outside  the  competition  and  contact  of  practical 
activity,  in  contemplation  of  nature  and  art,  developed  this  view  — 
the  spectator's  view,  which  will  always  be  that  of  the  artist  and 
of  the  thinker,  strongly  opposed  to  that  of  the  actor  on  the  stage 
of  human  life.  «  Iphigenia,  '^  «  Torquato  Tasso, »  «  Wilhelm  Meister, » 
are  the  fruits  and  the  interpreters  of  this  conception  of  the  moral 
world.  What  ripened  and  perfected  it,  so  as  to  raise  it  into  a  gen- 
eral view,  not  only  of  morality,  but  also  of  the  great  philosophical 
questions  which  man  is  called  upon  to  answer,  was  his  study  of 
nature,  greatly  furthered  during  his  stay  in  Italy.  The  problem 
which  lay  at  the  bottom  of  all  the  vague  longing  of  his  genera- 
tion for  nature  he  was  to  solve.  It  became  his  incessant  endeavor 
to  understand  the  coherence  and  unity  of  nature. 

"  You  are  forever  searching  for  what  is  necessary  in  nature," 
Schiller  wrote  to  him  once,  "  but  you  search  for  it  in  the  most  diffi- 
cult way.  You  take  the  whole  of  nature  in  order  to  obtain  light  on 
the  particular  case;  you  look  into  the  totality  for  the  explanation 
of  the  individual  existence.  From  the  simplest  organism  in  na- 
ture, you  ascend  step  by  step  to  the  more  complicated,  and  finally 
construct  the  most  complicated  of  all,  man,  out  of  the  materials 
of  the  whole  of  nature.  In  thus  creating  man  anew  under  the 
guidance  of  nature,  you  penetrate  into  his  mysterious  organism." 

And,  indeed,  as  there  is  a  wonderful  harmony  with  nature  in 
Goethe,  the  poet  and  the  man,  so  there  is  the  same  harmony  in 
Goethe,  the  savant  and  the  thinker;  nay,  even  science  he  practiced 
as  a  poet.  As  one  of  the  greatest  physicists  of  our  days,  Helm- 
holtz,  has  said  of   him:    "He   did   not   try  to  translate  nature  into 


2196  KARL   HILLEBRAND 

abstract  conceptions,  but  takes  it  as  a  complete  work  of  art,  which 
must  reveal  its  contents  spontaneously  to  an  intelligent  observer. '^ 
Goethe  never  became  a  thorough  experimentalist;  he  did  not  want 
®to  extort  the  secret  from  nature  by  pumps  and  retorts.*  He 
waited  patiently  for  a  voluntary  revelation,  i.  e.,  until  he  could 
surprise  that  secret  by  an  intuitive  glance;  for  it  was  his  convic- 
tion that  if  you  live  intimately  with  Nature,  she  will  sooner  or 
later  disclose  her  mysteries  to  you.  If  you  read  his  "  Songs,*  his 
^^Werther,  *  his  "  Die  Wahlverwandtschaften,*  you  feel  that  extraor- 
dinary intimacy — I  had  almost  said  identification  —  with  nature, 
present  everywhere.  Werther's  love  springs  up  with  the  blossom 
of  all  nature;  he  begins  to  sink  and  nears  his  self-made  tomb, 
while  autumn,  the  death  of  nature,  is  in  the  fields  and  woods.  So 
does  the  moon  spread  her  mellow  light  over  his  garden,  as  ^*  the 
mild  eye  of  a  true  friend  over  his  destiny.*  Never  was  there  a 
poet  who  humanized  nature  or  naturalized  human  feeling,  if  I 
might  say  so,  to  the  same  degree  as  Goethe.  Now,  this  same  love 
of  nature  he  brought  into  his  scientific  researches. 

He  began  his  studies  of  nature  early,  and  he  began  them  as 
he  was  to  finish  them, —  with  geology.  Buffon's  great  views  on  the 
revolutions  of  the  earth  had  made  a  deep  impression  upon  him, 
although  he  was  to  end  as  the  declared  adversary  of  that  vul- 
canism  which  we  can  trace  already  at  the  bottom  of  Buffon's 
theory  —  naturally  enough,  when  we  think  how  uncongenial  all 
violence  in  society  and  nature  was  to  him,  how  he  looked  every- 
where for  slow,  uninterrupted  evolution.  From  theoretical  study 
he  had  early  turned  to  direct  observation;  and  when  his  admin- 
istrative functions  obliged  him  to  survey  the  mines  of  the  little 
Dukedom,  ample  opportunity  was  ofEered  for  positive  studies.  As 
early  as  1778,  in  a  paper  on  *^  Granite,*  he  wrote:  "  I  do  not  fear  the 
reproach  that  a  spirit  of  contradiction  draws  me  from  the  con- 
templation of  the  human  heart  —  this  most  mobile,  most  mutable, 
and  fickle  part  of  the  creation  —  to  the  observation  of  (granite) 
the  oldest,  firmest,  deepest,  most  immovable  son  of  Nature.  For 
all  natural  things  are  in  connection  with  each  other.*  It  was  his 
life's  task  to  search  for  the  links  of  this  coherence  in  order  to 
find  that  unity  which  he  knew  to  be  in  the  moral  as  well  as  ma- 
terial universe. 

From  « Lectures  on  the  History  of  German 
Thought. » 


2197 


THOMAS   HOBBES 

(1588-1679) 


K*22 


r^HOMAS  HoBBES  (borti  in  Wiltshire,  England,  April  5th,  1588)  is 
chiefly  celebrated  for  his  «  Leviathan, »  a  curious  argument 
against  political  liberty  in  all  its  forms.  He  was  the  author 
of  a  number  of  philosophical  works,  notably  of  «  Liberty  and  Neces- 
sity,»  which  appeared  in  1654  and  gave  occasion  for  the  title  of 
«  leader  of  modern  rationalism,  >>  with  which  he  has  been  brevetted. 
His  methods,  however,  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  processes  through 
which  modern  science  has  reached  positive  results.  In  his  own  politics, 
he  was  not  specially  consistent,  for  he  lived  as  a  Cromwellian  under 
Cromwell  and  as  an  advocate  of  absolutism  under  Charles  IL  He 
died  December  4th,  1679.  He  had  a  clear  understanding  of  the  vices 
of  human  nature,  but  he  seems  to  have  had  no  conception  of  the 
idea  of  evolution,— of  educating  and  developing  the  good  in  all  nature, 
including  human  nature,  as  the  only  possible  way  of  overcoming  the 
evil. 


«THE   DESIRE   AND   WILL    TO   HURT» 

THE  cause  of  mutual  fear  consists  partly  in  the  natural  equal- 
ity of  rnen,  partly  in  their  mutual  will  of  hurting;  whence 
it  comes  to  pass  that  we  can  neither  expect  from  others, 
nor  promise  to  ourselves,  the  least  security.  For  if  we  look  on 
men  full-grown,  and  consider  how  brittle  the  frame  of  our  hu- 
man body  is,  which  perishing,  all  its  strength,  vigor,  and  wisdom 
itself  pcrisheth  with  it;  and  how  easy  a  matter  it  is,  even  for 
the  weakest  man  to  kill  the  strongest:  there  is  no  reason  why 
any  man,  trusting  to  his  own  strength,  should  conceive  himself 
made  by  nature  above  others.  They  are  equals,  who  can  do 
equal  things  one  against  the  other;  but  they  who  can  do  the 
greatest  thing,  viz.,  kill,  can  do  equal  things.  All  men,  there- 
fore, among  themselves  are  by  nature  equal;  the  inequality  we 
now  discern  hath  its  spring  from  the  civil  law. 

All  men  in  the  state  of  nature  have  a  desire  and  will  to  hurt, 
but    not    proceeding    from    the   same   cause,  neither  equally  to  be 


219S  THOMAS  HOBBES 

condemned.  For  one  man,  according  to  that  natural  equality 
which  is  among  us,  permits  as  much  to  others  as  he  assumes  to 
himself;  which  is  an  argument  of  a  temperate  man,  and  one  that 
rightly  values  his  power.  Another,  supposing  himself  above 
others,  will  have  a  license  to  do  what  he  lists,  and  challenges 
respect  and  honor,  as  due  to  "him  before  others;  which  is  an 
argument  of  a  fiery  spirit.  This  man's  will  to  hurt  ariseth  from 
vainglory,  and  the  false  esteem  he  hath  of  his  own  strength; 
the  other's  from  the  necessity  of  defending  himself,  his  liberty, 
and  his  goods,  against  this  man's  violence. 

Furthermore,  since  the  combat  of  wits  is  the  fiercest,  the 
greatest  discords  which  are  must  necessarily  arise  from  this  con- 
tention. For  in  this  case  it  is  not  only  odious  to  contend  against, 
but  also  not  to  consent.  For  not  to  approve  of  what  a  man 
saith  is  no  less  than  tacitly  to  accuse  him  of  an  error  in  that 
thing  which  he  speaketh:  as  in  very  many  things  to  dissent  is 
as  much  as  if  you  accounted  him  a  fool  whom  you  dissent  from. 
Which  may  appear  hence,  that  there  are  no  wars  so  sharply 
waged  as  between  sects  of  the  same  religion,  and  factions  of  the 
same  commonweal,  where  the  contestation  is  either  concern- 
ing doctrines  or  politic  prudence.  And  since  all  the  pleasure 
and  jollity  of  the  mind  consist  in  this,  even  to  get  some,  with 
whom  comparing,  it  may  find  somewhat  wherein  to  triumph  and 
vaunt  itself;  it  is  impossible,  but  men  must  declare  sometimes 
some  mutual  scorn  and  contempt,  either  by  laughter,  or  by  words, 
or  by  gesture,  or  some  sign  or  other;  than  which  there  is  no 
greater  vexation  of  mind,  and  than  from  which  there  cannot 
possibly  arise  a  greater  desire  to  do  hurt. 

But  the  most  frequent  reason  why  men  desire  to  hurt  each 
other  ariseth  hence,  that  many  men  at  the  same  time  have  an 
appetite  to  the  same  thing;  which  yet  very  often  they  can  neither 
enjoy  in  common,  nor  yet  divide  it;  whence  it  follows  that  the 
strongest  must  have  it,  and  who  is  strongest  must  be  decided  by 
the  sword. 

From  « Philosophical  Elements  of  a 
True  Citizen. » 


THOMAS   HOBBES  2 1 99 


BRUTALITY   IN   HUMAN   NATURE 

IT  MAY  seem  strange  to  some  man  that  has  not  well  weighed 
these   things,   that   nature   should  dissociate,  and   render  men 

apt  to  invade  and  destroy  one  another:  and  he  may  there- 
fore, not  trusting  to  this  inference  made  from  the  passions,  de- 
sire perhaps  to  have  the  same  confirmed  by  experience.  Let 
him  therefore  consider  with  himself,  when  taking  a  journey,  he 
arms  himself,  and  seeks  to  go  well  accompanied;  when  going  to 
sleep,  he  locks  his  doors;  when  even  in  his  house,  he  locks  his 
chests;  and  this  when  he  knows  there  be  laws,  and  public  offi- 
cers, armed,  to  revenge  all  injuries  which  shall  be  done  him ;  what 
opinion  he  has  of  his  fellow-subjects,  when  he  rides  armed ;  of  his 
fellow- citizens,  when  he  locks  his  doors;  and  of  his  children  and 
servants,  when  he  locks  his  chests.  Does  he  not  there  as  much 
accuse  mankind  by  his  actions  as  I  do  by  my  words  ?  But  neither 
of  us  accuse  man's  nature  in  it.  The  desires  and  other  passions 
of  man  are  in  themselves  no  sin.  No  more  are  the  actions  that 
proceed  from  those  passions,  till  they  know  a  law  that  forbids 
them;  which,  till  laws  be  made,  they  cannot  know:  nor  can  any 
law  be  made  till  they  have  agreed  upon  the  person  that  shall 
make  it. 

It  may,  perad venture,  be  thought  there  was  never  such  a  time 
nor  condition  of  war  as  this;  and  I  believe  it  was  never  gener- 
ally so  over  all  the  world,  but  there  are  many  places  where  they 
live  so  now.  For  the  savage  people  in  many  places  of  America, 
except  the  government  of  small  families,  the  concord  whereof  de- 
pendeth  on  natural  lust,  have  no  government  at  all,  and  live  at 
this  day  in  a  brutish  manner.  .  .  .  Howsoever,  it  may  be 
perceived  what  manner  of  life  there  would  be,  where  there  were 
no  common  power  to  fear,  by  the  manner  of  life  which  men 
that  have  formerly  lived  under  a  peaceful  government  used  to 
degenerate  into,  in  a  civil  war. 

But  though  there  had  never  been  any  time  wherein  particu- 
lar men  were  in  a  condition  of  war  one  against  another,  yet  in 
all  times,  kings  and  persons  of  sovereign  authority,  because  of 
their  independency,  are  in  continual  jealousies,  and  in  the  state 
and  posture  of  gladiators,  having  their  weapons  pointing,  and 
their  eyes  fixed  on  one  another:  that  is,  their  forts,  garrisons, 
and   guns   upon   the    frontiers  of   their  kingdoms;    and    continual 


2200  THOMAS   HOBBES 

spies  upon  their  neighbors;  which  is  a  posture  of  war.  But,  be- 
cause they  uphold  thereby  the  industry  of  their  subjects,  there 
does  not  follow  from  it  that  misery  which  accompanies  the  lib- 
erty of  particular  men. 

To  this  war  of  every  man  against  every  man,  this  also  is  con- 
sequent, that  nothing  can  be  unjust.  The  notions  of  right  and 
wrong,  justice  and  injustice,  have  there  no  place.  Where  there 
is  no  common  power,  there  is  no  law;  where  no  law,  no  injustice. 
Force  and  fraud  are  in  war  the  two  cardinal  virtues.  Justice 
and  injustice  are  none  of  the  faculties  neither  of  the  body  nor 
mind.  If  they  were,  they  might  be  in  a  man  that  were  alone  in 
the  world,  as  well  as  his  senses  and  passions.  They  are  qualities 
that  relate  to  men  in  society,  not  in  solitude.  It  is  consequent 
also  to  the  same  condition,  that  there  be  no  propriety,  no  domin- 
ion, no  mine  and  thine  distinct;  but  only  that  to  be  every  man's, 
that  he  can  get;  and  for  so  long,  as  he  can  keep  it.  And  thus 
much  for  the  ill  condition,  which  man  by  mere  nature  is  actually 
placed  in;  though  with  a  possibility  to  come  out  of  it,  consisting 
partly  in  the  passions,  partly  in  his  reason. 

From  the  «  Leviathan. » 


320I 


OLIVER   WENDELL  HOLMES 

(1 809- 1 894) 

|he  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast-Table  »  appeared  first  as  a  series 
of  essays  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly  at  a  time  (1858-59)  when 
current  American  humor  consisted  almost  wholly  of  the 
broadest  and  most  farcical  burlesque.  Irving  had  written  and  had 
been  much  admired  on  English  authority  that  he  represented  literary 
excellence  of  a  high  order,  but  the  general  circulation  of  his  works 
consequent  on  the  expiration  of  copyrights  had  not  then  begun. 
Popular  taste  was  crude,  and  it  was  fed  with  crudity.  A  « Cyclopedia 
of  Humor »  of  several  hundred  pages,  published  by  one  of  the  leading 
houses  of  the  country  in  the  year  in  which  the  «  Autocrat  of  the  Break- 
fast-Table *  appeared,  has  in  it  hardly  an  example  of  American  humor 
which  rises  above  the  taste  of  the  circus  ring-master.  It  is  not 
strange  under  such  circumstances  that  Dr.  Holmes  won  immediate 
celebrity.  He  represented  literary  excellence,  and,  at  the  same  time, 
much  more  of  the  real  American  spirit  than  is  to  be  found  in  Irving's 
imitation  of  Addison.  Such  poems  as  that  in  which  Holmes  tells  the 
history  of  the  «  One-Hoss  Shay  »  interspersed  the  prose  in  a  way  which 
has  proven  popular  ever  since  it  was  invented  several  thousand  years 
ago  in  Persia;  and  in  these,  as  well  as  in  the  prose,  was  a  « benignant 
vein  of  wit »  delicate  enough  to  be  pleasing  to  the  most  refined,  and 
yet  broad  enough  to  impress  itself  on  those  who  require  burnt  cork 
with  their  humor  and  red  fire  with  their  tragedy.  Dr.  Holmes 
became  thus  the  first  real  American  humorist  with  an  assured  stand- 
ing in  good  literature.  He  followed  his  first  great  success  by  «  The 
Professor  at  the  Breakfast-Table »  and  « The  Poet  at  the  Breakfast- 
Table, »  as  well  as  by  poems,  novels,  and  miscellaneous  essays,  all 
admirable  in  their  way,  but  not  capable  singly  or  in  mass  of  dis- 
placing him  from  the  public  mind  in  his  original  role  of  «  Autocrat.  »> 
He  had  a  true  and  fine  ear  for  melody  and  all  his  verse  shows  it, 
but  he  will  be  remembered  by  his  ode  on  «  The  Chambered  Nautilus  » 
when  all  the  rest  is  forgotten.  Born  at  Cambridge,  Massachusetts. 
August  29th,  1809,  he  adopted  medicine  as  a  profession  and  followed 
it  usefully  until  his  death,  October  7th,  1894,  but  his  highest  useful- 
ness was  in  curing  bad  humor.  New  England  has  produced  many 
greater  propagandists  and  a  number  of  greater  thinkers,  but  no   one 


2  202  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

whom  the  Americans  of  the  coming  century,  north  and  sonth,  east 
and  west,  are  likely  to  love  better  as  the  representative  of  all  that 
is  best  in  New  England  good-nature. 

W.  V.  B. 


MY  FIRST  WALK  WITH   THE   SCHOOLMISTRESS 

THIS  is  the  shortest  way, —  she  said,  as  we  came  to  a  comer. 
—  Then  we  won't  take  it, —  said  I.  —  The  schoolmistress 
laughed  a  little,  and  said  she  was  ten  minutes  early,  so  she 
could  go  around. 

We  walked  around  Mr.  Paddock's  row  of  English  elms.  The 
gray  squirrels  were  out  looking  for  their  breakfasts,  and  one  of 
them  came  towards  us  in  light,  soft,  intermittent  leaps,  until  he 
was  close  to  the  rail  of  the  burial  ground.  He  was  on  a  grave 
with  a  broad  blue  slate-stone  at  its  head,  and  a  shrub  growing 
on  it.  The  stone  said  this  was  the  grave  of  a  young  man  who 
was  the  son  of  an  Honorable  gentleman,  and  who  died  a  hun- 
dred years  ago  and  more.  Oh,  yes,  died, — with  a  small  trian- 
gular mark  in  one  breast,  and  another  smaller  opposite,  in  his 
back,  where  another  young  man's  rapier  had  slid  through  his 
body;  and  so  he  lay  down  out  there  on  the  Common,  and  was 
found  cold  the  next  morning,  with  the  night  dews  and  the  death 
dews  mingled  on  his  forehead. 

Let  us  have  one  look  at  poor  Benjamin's  grave, —  said  I. — 
His  bones  lie  where  his  body  was  laid  so  long  ago,  and  where 
the  stone  says  they  lie, —  which  is  more  than  can  be  said  of  most 
of  the  tenants  of  this  and  several  other  burial   grounds. 

[The  most  accursed  act  of  vandalism  ever  committed  within 
my  knowledge  was  the  uprooting  of  the  ancient  gravestones  in 
three,  at  least,  of  our  city  burial  grounds,  and  one,  at  least,  just 
outside  the  city,  and  planting  them  in  rows  to  suit  the  taste  for 
symmetry  of  the  perpetrators.  Many  years  ago,  when  this  dis- 
graceful process  was  going  on  under  my  eyes,  I  addressed  an  in- 
dignant remonstrance  to  a  leading  journal.  I  suppose  it  was 
deficient  in  literary  elegance,  or  too  warm  in  its  language;  for 
no  notice  was  taken  of  it,  and  the  hyena-horror  was  allowed  to 
complete  itself  in  the  face  of  daylight.  I  have  never  got  over 
it.    The  bones  of  my  own  ancestors,  being  entombed,  lie  beneath 


OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES  2203 

their  own  tablet;  but  the  upright  stones  have  been  shuffled  about 
like  chessmen,  and  nothing  short  of  the  Day  of  Judgment  will 
tell  whose  dust  lies  beneath  any  of  these  records,  meant  by  affec- 
tion to  mark  one  small  spot  as  sacred  to  some  cherished  mem- 
ory. Shame!  shame!  shame!  —  that  is  all  I  can  say.  It  was  on 
public  thoroughfares,  under  the  eye  of  authority,  that  this  infamy 
was  enacted.  The  red  Indians  would  have  known  better;  the 
selectmen  of  an  African  kraal  village  would  have  had  more  re- 
spect for  their  ancestors.  I  should  like  to  see  the  gravestones 
which  have  been  disturbed  all  removed,  and  the  ground  leveled, 
leaving  the  flat  tombstones;  epitaphs  were  never  famous  for 
truth,  but  the  old  reproach  of  "  Here  lies  ^^  never  had  such  a 
wholesome  illustration  as  in  these  outraged  burial  places,  where 
the  stone  does  lie  above,   and   the  bones  do  not  lie  beneath.] 

Stop  before  we  turn  away,  and  breathe  a  woman's  sigh  over 
poor  Benjamin's  dust.  Love  killed  him,  I  think.  Twenty  years 
old,  and  out  there  fighting  another  young  fellow  on  the  common, 
in  the  cool  of  that  old  July  evening;  —  yes,  there  must  have  been 
love  at  the  bottom  of  it. 

The  schoolmistress  dropped  a  rosebud  she  had  in  her  hand 
through  the  rails,  upon  the  grave  of  Benjamin  Woodbridge.  That 
was  all  her  comment  upon  what  I  told  her. —  How  women  love 
Love!  said  I;  —  but  she  did  not  speak. 

We  came  opposite  the  head  of  a  place  or  court  running  east- 
ward from  the  main  street. —  Look  down  there, —  I  said, —  my 
friend,  the  Professor,  lived  in  that  house,  at  the  left  hand,  next 
the  further  comer,  for  years  and  years.  He  died  out  of  it,  the 
other  day. —  Died?  —  said  the  schoolmistress. —  Certainly, —  said  I. 
—  We  die  out  of  houses,  just  as  we  die  out  of  our  bodies.  A  com- 
mercial smash  kills  a  hundred  men's  homes  for  them,  as  a  rail- 
road crash  kills  their  mortal  frames  and  drives  out  the  immortal 
tenants.  Men  sicken  of  houses  until  at  last  they  quit  them,  as 
the  soul  leaves  its  body  when  it  is  tired  of  its  infirmities.  The 
body  has  been  called  "  the  house  we  live  in  " ;  the  house  is  quite 
as  much  the  body  we  live  in.  Shall  I  tell  you  some  things  the 
Professor  said  the  other  day?  —  Do!  —  said  the  schoolmistress. 

A  man's  body, —  said  the  Professor, —  is  whatever  is  occupied 
by  his  will  and  his  sensibility.  The  small  room  down  there, 
where  I  wrote  those  papers  you  remember  reading,  was  much 
more  a  part  of  my  body  than  a  paralytic's  senseless  and  motion- 
less arm  or  leg  is  of  his. 


2  204  OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES 

The  soul  of  a  man  has  a  series  of  concentric  envelopes  around 
it,  like  the  core  of  an  onion,  or  the  innermost  of  a  nest  of  boxes. 
First,  he  has  his  natural  garment  of  flesh  and  blood.  Then,  his 
artificial  integuments,  with  their  true  skin  of  solid  stuffs,  their 
cuticle  of  lighter  tissues,  and  their  variously  tinted  pigments. 
Third,  his  domicile,  be  it  a  single  chamber  or  a  stately  mansion 
And  then,  the  whole  visible  world,  in  which  Time  buttons  him  up 
as  in  a  loose  outside  wrapper. 

You  shall  observe, —  the  Professor  said,— for  like  Mr.  John 
Hunter  and  other  great  men,  he  brings  in  that  ^*  shall  ^>  with  great 
effect  sometimes, —  you  shall  observe  that  a  man's  clothing  or  se- 
ries of  envelopes  after  a  certain  time  mold  themselves  upon  his 
individual  nature.  We  know  this  of  our  hats,  and  are  always  re- 
minded of  it  when  we  happen  to  put  them  on  wrong  side  fore- 
most. We  soon  find  that  the  beaver  is  a  hollow  cast  of  the  skull, 
with  all  its  irregular  bumps  and  depressions.  Just  so  all  that 
clothes  a  man,  even  to  the  blue  sky  which  caps  his  head, —  a  lit- 
tle loosely,— shapes  itself  to  fit  each  particular  being  beneath  it. 
Farmers,  sailors,  astronomers,  poets,  lovers,  condemned  criminals, 
all  find  it  different,  according  to  the  eyes  with  which  they  sever- 
ally look. 

But  our  houses  shape  themselves  palpably  on  our  inner  and 
outer  natures.  See  a  householder  breaking  up  and  you  will  be 
sure  of  it.  There  is  a  shellfish  which  builds  all  manner  of 
smaller  shells  into  the  walls  of  its  own.  A  house  is  never  a 
home  until  we  have  crusted  it  with  the  spoils  of  a  hundred  lives 
besides  those  of  our  own  past.  See  what  these  are,  and  you  can 
tell  what  the  occupant  is. 

I  had  no  idea,— said  the  Professor,— until  I  pulled  up  my  do- 
mestic establishment  the  other  day,  what  an  enormous  quantity 
of  roots  I  had  been  making  the  years  I  was  planted  there.  Why, 
there  wasn't  a  nook  or  a  corner  that  some  fibre  had  not  worked 
its  way  into;  and  when  I  gave  the  last  wrench,  each  of  them 
seemed  to  shriek  like  a  mandrake,  as  it  "broke  its  hold  and  came 
away. 

There  is  nothing  that  happens,  you  know,  which  must  not  in- 
evitably, and  which  does  not  actually,  photograph  itself  in  every 
conceivable  aspect  and  in  all  dimensions.  The  infinite  galleries 
of  the  Past  await  but  one  brief  process,  and  all  their  pictures 
will  be  called  out  and  fixed  forever.  W"e  had  a  curious  illustra- 
tion of   the  great   fact  on  a  very  humble  scale.      When  a  certain 


OLIVER   WENDELL    HOLMES  2205 

bookcase,  long  standing  in  one  place,  for  which  it  was  built,  was 
removed,  there  was  the  exact  image  on  the  wall  of  the  whole, 
and  of  many  of  its  portions.  But  in  the  midst  of  this  picture 
was  another, —  the  precise  outline  of  a  map  which  hung  on  the 
wall  before  the  bookcase  was  built.  We  had  all  forgotten  every- 
thing about  the  map  until  we  saw  its  photograph  on  the  wall. 
Then  we  remembered  it,  as  some  day  or  other  we  may  remem- 
ber a  sin  which  has  been  built  over  and  covered  up,  when  this 
lower  universe  is  pulled  away  from  the  wall  of  Infinity,  where 
the  wrongdoing  stands,  self-recorded. 

The  Professor  lived  in  that  house  a  long  time— not  twenty 
years,  but  pretty  near  it.  When  he  entered  that  door,  two  shad- 
ows glided  over  the  threshold;  five  lingered  in  the  doorway  when 
he  passed  through  it  for  the  last  time, —  and  one  of  the  shadows 
was  claimed  by  its  owner  to  be  longer  than  his  own.  What 
changes  he  saw  in  that  quiet  place!  Death  rained  through  every 
roof  but  his;  children  came  into  life,  grew  to  maturity;  wedded, 
faded  away,  threw  themselves  away;  the  whole  drama  of  life  was 
played  in  that  stock  company's  theatre  of  a  dozen  houses,  one  of 
which  was  his,  and  no  deep  sorrow  or  severe  calamity  ever  entered 
his  dwelling.  Peace  be  to  those  walls  forever, —  the  Professor 
said, —  for  the   many  pleasant  years  he  has  passed  within   them. 

The  Professor  has  a  friend,  now  living  at  a  distance,  who  has 
been  with  him  in  many  of  his  changes  of  place,  and  who  follows 
him  in  imagination  with  tender  interest  wherever  he  goes. — 
In  that  little  court,  where  he  lived  in  gay  loneliness  so  long, — 
in  his  autumnal  sojourn  by  the  Connecticut,  where  it  comes 
loitering  down  from  its  mountain  fastnesses  like  a  great  lord, 
swallowing  up  the  small  proprietary  rivulets  very  quietly  as  it  goes, 
until  it  gets  proud  and  swollen  and  wantons  in  huge  luxurious 
oxbows  about  the  fair  Northampton  meadows,  and  at  last  over- 
flows the  oldest  inhabitant's  memory  in  profligate  freshets  at 
Hartford  and  all  along  its  lower  shores, — up  in  that  caravansary 
on  the  banks  of  the  stream  where  Ledyard  launched  his  log 
canoe,  and  the  jovial  old  Colonel  used  to  lead  the  commencement 
processions, —  where  blue  Ascutney  looked  down  from  the  far 
distance,  and  the  hills  of  Beulah,  as  the  Professor  always  called 
them,  rolled  up  the  opposite  horizon  in  soft  climbing  masses,  so 
suggestive  of  the  Pilgrim's  Heavenward  Path  that  he  used  to  look 
through  his  old  <*  Dollond »  to  see  if  the  Shining  Ones  were  not 
within  range  of  sight, —  sweet  visions,   sweetest  in    those    Sunday 


2  2o6  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

walks  that  carried  them  by  the  peaceful  common,  through  the 
solemn  village  lying  in  cataleptic  stillness  under  the  shadows  of 
the  rod  of  Moses,  to  the  terminus  of  their  harmless  stroll, —  the 
^*  patulous  fage,'^  in  the  Professor's  classic  dialect, —  the  spreading 
beech,  in  more  familiar  phrase, —  [stop  and  breathe  here  a  mo- 
ment, for  the  sentence  is  not  done  yet,  and  we  have  another  long 
journey  before  us.] 

—  and  again  once  more  up  among  those  other  hills  that  shut 
in  the  amber-flowing  Housatonic,  —  dark  stream,  but  clear,  like 
the  lucid  orbs  that  shine  beneath  the  lids  of  auburn-haired,  sherry- 
wine-eyed  demiblondes, —  in  the  home  overlooking  the  winding 
stream  and  the  smooth,  flat  meadow;  looked  down  upon  by  wild 
hills,  where  the  tracks  of  bears  and  catamounts  may  yet  some- 
times be  seen  upon  the  winter  snow;  facing  the  twin  summits 
which  rise  in  the  far  North,  the  highest  waves  of  the  great  land 
storm  in  this  billowy  region, —  suggestive  to  mad  fancies  of  the 
breasts  of  a  half-buried  Titaness,  stretched  out  by  a  stray  thunder- 
bolt and  hastily  hidden  away  beneath  the  leaves  of  the  forest, — 
in  that  home  where  seven  blessed  summers  were  passed,  which 
stand  in  memory  like  the  seven  golden  candlesticks  in  the  bea- 
tific vision  of  the  holy  dreamer, — 

—  in  that  modest  dwelling  we  were  just  looking  at,  not  glori- 
ous, yet  not  unlovely  in  the  youth  of  its  drab  and  mahogany, — 
full  of  great  and  little  boys'  playthings  from  top  to  bottom,  — 
in  all  these  summer  or  winter  nests,  he  was  always  at  home  and 
always  welcome. 

This  long  articulated  sigh  of  reminiscences, —  this  calenture 
which  shows  me  the  maple-shadowed  plains  of  Berkshire  and  the 
mountain-circled  green  of  Grafton  beneath  the  salt  waves  that 
come  feeling  their  way  along  the  wall  at  my  feet,  restless  and 
soft-touching  as  blind  men's  busy  fingers, —  is  for  that  friend  of 
mine  who  looks  into  the  waters  of  the  Patapsco  and  sees  beneath 
them  the  same  visions  that  paint  themselves  for  me  in  the  green 
depths  of  the  Charles. 

Did  I  talk  all  this  off  to  the  schoolmistress?  —  Why,  no  —  of 
course  not.  I  have  been  talking  with  you,  the  reader,  for  the 
last  ten  minutes.  You  don't  think  I  should  expect  any  woman 
to  listen  to  such  a  sentence  as  that  long  one,  without  giving  her 
a  chance  to  put  in  a  word  ? 

What  did  I  say  to  the  schoolmistress  ?  —  Permit  me  one  mo- 
ment.     I    don't  doubt  your  delicacy  and   good-breeding;   but   in 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES  2207 

this  particular  case,  as  I  was  allowed  the  privilege  of  walking 
alone  with  a  very  interesting  young  woman,  you  must  allow  me 
to  remark,  in  the  classic  version  of  a  familiar  phrase,  used  by  our 
Master  Benjamin  Franklin,  it  is  nullum  tui  negotii. 

When  the  schoolmistress  and  I  reached  the  schoolroom  door, 
the  damask  roses  I  spoke  of  were  so  much  heightened  in  color 
by  exercise  that  I  felt  sure  it  would  be  useful  to  her  to  take  a 
stroll  like  this  every  morning,  and  made  up  my  mind  I  would  ask 

her  to  let  me  join  her  again. 

Complete.     From  «The  Autocrat  of  the 
Breakfast-Table. » 


EXTRACTS   FROM   MY   PRIVATE  JOURNAL 
(To  be  burned  unread) 

I  AM  afraid  I  have  been  a  fool;  for  I  have  told  as  much  of  my- 
self to  this  young  person  as  if  she  were  of  that  ripe  and  discreet 
age  which  invites  confidence  and  expansive  utterance.  I  have 
been  low  spirited  and  listless  lately, —  it  is  coffee,  I  think, —  (I  ob- 
serve that  which  is  bought  ready  ground  never  affects  the  head), — 
and  I  notice  that  I  tell  my  secrets  too  easily  when  I  am  down- 
hearted. 

There  are  inscriptions  on  our  hearts,  which,  like  that  on 
Dighton  Rock,  are  never  to  be  seen  except  at  dead-low  tide. 

There  is  a  woman's  footstep  on  the  sand  at  the  side  of  my 
deepest  ocean-buried  inscription. 

—  Oh,  no,  no!  a  thousand  times,  no!  Yet,  what  is  this  which 
has  been  shaping  itself  in  my  soul?  —  is  it  a  thought? — is  it  a 
dream? — is  it  a  passion?  —  Then  I  know  what  comes  next. 

The  asylum  stood  on  a  bright  and  breezy  hill ;  those  glazed  cor- 
ridors are  pleasant  to  walk  in,  in  bad  weather.  But  there  are  iron 
bars  to  all  the  windows.  When  it  is  fair,  some  of  us  can  stroll 
outside  that  very  high  fence.  But  I  never  see  much  life  in  the 
groups  I  sometimes  meet;  and  then  the  careful  man  watches 
them  so  closely!  How  I  remember  that  sad  company  I  used  to 
pass  on  fine  mornings,  when  I  was  a  schoolboy!  —  B.,  with  his 
arms  full  of  yellow  weeds, —  ore  from  the  gold  mines  which  he 
discovered  long  before  we  heard  of  California, —  Y. ,  born  to  mil- 
lions, crazed  by  too  much  plum  cake  (the  boys  said),  dogged,  ex- 
plosive,—  made  a  Polyphemus  of   my   weak-eyed   schoolmaster  by 


2  2oS  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

a  vicious  ffirt  with  a  stick, —  (the  multimillionaires  sent  him  a 
trifle,  it  was  said,  to  buy  another  eye  with;  but  boys  are  jealous 
of  rich  folks,  and  I  don't  doubt  the  good  people  made  him  easy 
for  life), —  how  I  remember  them  all! 

I  recollect,  as  all  do,  the  story  of  the  Hall  of  Eblis,  in 
"Vathek,*  and  how  each  shape,  as  it  lifted  its  hand  from  its 
breast,  showed  its  heart, —  a  burning  coal.  The  real  Hall  of  Eb- 
lis stands  on  yonder  summit.  Go  there  on  the  next  visiting  day, 
and  ask  that  figure  crouched  in  the  corner,  huddled  up  like  those 
Indian  mummies  and  skeletons  found  buried  in  the  sitting  posture, 
to  lift  its  hand, —  look  upon  its  heart,  and  behold,  not  fire,  but 
ashes. — No,  I  must  not  think  of  such  an  ending!  Dying  would 
be  a  much  more  gentlemanly  way  of  meeting  the  difficulty.  Make 
a  will  and  leave  her  a  house  or  two  and  some  stocks,  and  other 
little  financial  conveniences  to  take  away  her  necessity  for  keep- 
ing school. —  I  wonder  what  nice  young  man's  feet  would  be  in 
my  French  slippers  before  six  months  were  over!  Well,  what 
then?  If  a  man  reaHy  loves  a  woman,  of  course  he  wouldn't 
marry  her  for  the  world  if  he  were  not  quite  sure  that  he  was 
the  best  person  that  she  could  by  any  possibility  marry. 

It  is  odd  enough  to  read  over  what  I  have  just  been  writing. 

—  It  is  the  merest  fancy  that  ever  was  in  the  world.  I  shall 
never  be  married.  She  will;  and  if  she  is  as  pleasant  as  she  has 
been  so  far,  I  will  give  her  a  silver  teaset,  and  go  and  take  tea 
with  her  and  her  husband  sometimes.     No  coffee,  I  hope,  though, 

—  it  depresses  me  sadly.  I  feel  very  miserably;  they  must  have 
been  grinding  it  at  home. —  Another  morning  walk  will  be  good 
for  me,  and  I  don't  doubt  the  schoolmistress  will  be  glad  of  a 
little  fresh  air  before  school. 

Complete.     From  «The  Autocrat  of  the 
Breakfast-Table. » 


MY  LAST  WALK  WITH   THE   SCHOOLMISTRESS 

(A  parenthesis) 

I   can't  say  just  how  many  walks  she  and  I  had  taken  together 
before  this  one.     I  found  the  effect  of  going  out  every  morn- 
ing  was   decidedly   favorable    on    her   health.      Two    pleasing 
dimples,   the  places  for  which  v;ere  just  marked  when  she  came, 


OLIVER   WENDELL  HOLMES  2209 

played,  shadowy,  in  her  freshening  cheeks  when  she  smiled  and 
nodded  good-morning  to  me  from  the  schoolhouse  steps. 

I  am  afraid  I  did  the  greater  part  of  the  talking.  At  any 
rate,  if  I  should  try  to  report  all  that  I  said  during  the  first  half- 
dozen  walks  we  took  together,  I  fear  that  I  might  receive  a  gen- 
tle hint  from  my  friends  the  publishers,  that  a  separate  volume, 
at  my  own  risk  and  expense,  would  be  the  proper  method  of 
bringing  them  before  the  public. 

I  would  have  a  woman  as  true  as  Death.  At  the  first  real 
lie  which  works  from  the  heart  outward,  she  should  be  tenderly 
chloroformed  into  a  better  world,  where  she  can  have  an  angel 
for  a  governess,  and  feed  on  strange  fruits  which  will  make  her 
all  over  again,  even  to  her  bones  and  marrow. —  Whether  gifted 
with  the  accident  of  beauty  or  not,  she  should  have  been  molded 
in  the  rose-red  clay  of  Love,  before  the  breath  of  life  made  a 
moving  mortal  of  her.  Love  capacity  is  a  congenital  endow- 
ment; and  I  think,  after  a  while,  one  gets  to  know  the  warm- 
hued  natures  it  belongs  to  from  the  pretty  pipe- clay  counterfeits 
of  it. —  Proud  she  may  be,  in  the  sense  of  respecting  herself; 
but  pride,  in  the  sense  of  contemning  others  less  gifted  than  her- 
self, deserves  the  two  lowest  circles  of  a  vulgar  woman's  Inferno, 
where  the  punishments  are  Smallpox  and  Bankruptcy. —  She  who 
nips  off  the  end  of  a  brittle  courtesy,  as  one  breaks  the  tip  of  an 
icicle,  to  bestow  upon  those  whom  she  ought  cordially  and  kindly 
to  recognize,  proclaims  the  fact  that  she  comes  not  merely  of  low 
blood,  but  of  bad  blood.  Consciousness  of  unquestioned  position 
makes  people  gracious  in  proper  measure  to  all;  but  if  a  woman 
puts  on  airs  with  her  real  equals,  she  has  something  about  herself 
or  her  family  she  is  ashamed  of,  or  ought  to  be.  Middle,  and  more 
than  middle-aged  people,  who  know  family  histories,  generally 
see  through  it.  An  official  of  standing  was  rude  to  me  once. 
Oh,  that  is  the  maternal  grandfather, —  said  a  wise  old  friend  to 
me, —  he  was  a  boor. —  Better  too  few  words,  from  the  woman 
we  love,  than  too  many:  while  she  is  silent,  Nature  is  working 
for  her;  while  she  talks,  she  is  working  for  herself. —  Love  is 
sparingly  soluble  in  the  words  of  men;  therefore  they  speak 
much  of  it;  but  one  syllable  of  woman's  speech  can  dissolve 
more  of  it  than  a  man's  heart  can  hold. 

Whether  I  said  any  or  all  of  these  things  to  the  schoolmistress 
or -not, —  whether  I  stole  them  out  of  Lord  Bacon, —  whether  I 
cribbed  them  from  Balzac, —  whether  I  dipped  them  from  the 
VI— 139 


2  2 lo  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

ocean  of  Tupperian  wisdom, —  or  whether  I  have  just  found  them 
in  my  head,  laid  there  by  that  solemn  fowl,  Experience  (who,  ac- 
cording to  my  observation,  cackles  oftener  than  she  drops  real, 
live  eggs), —  I  cannot  say.  Wise  men  have  said  more  foolish 
things, —  and  foolish  men,  I  don't  doubt,  have  said  as  wise  things. 
Anyhow,  the  schoolmistress  and  I  had  pleasant  walks  and  long 
talks,   all  of  which  I  do  not  feel  bound  to  report. 

You  are  a  stranger  to  me,  Ma'am. —  I  don't  doubt  you  would 
like  to  know  all  I  said  to  the  schoolmistress. —  I  shan't  do  it;  — 
I  had  rather  get  the  publishers  to  return  the  money  you  have 
invested  in  this.  Besides,  I  have  forgotten  a  good  deal  of  it.  I 
shall  tell  only  what  I  like  of  what  I  remember. 

My  idea  was,  in  the  first  place,  to  search  out  the  picturesque 
spots  which  the  city  affords  a  sight  of,  to  those  who  have  eyes. 
I  know  a  good  many,  and  it  was  a  pleasure  to  look  at  them  in 
company  with  my  young  friend.  There  were  the  shrubs  and 
flowers  in  the  Franklin  Place  front-yards  or  borders;  commerce 
is  just  putting  his  granite  foot  upon  them.  Then  there  are  cer- 
tain small  seraglio  gardens,  into  which  one  can  get  a  peep  through 
the  crevices  of  high  fences, —  one  in  Myrtle  Street,  or  backing  on 
it, — here  and  there  one  at  the  North  and  South  Ends.  Then  the 
great  elms  in  Essex  Street.  Then  the  stately  horse-chestnuts  in 
that  vacant  lot  in  Chambers  Street,  which  hold  their  outspread 
hands  over  your  head  (as  I  said  in  my  poem  the  other  day),  and 
look  as  if  they  were  whispering,  "  May  ^race,  mercy,  and  peace 
be  with  you !  ^^  and  the  rest  of  that  benediction.  Nay,  there  are 
certain  patches  of  ground,  which,  having  lain  neglected  for  a 
time.  Nature,  who  always  has  her  pockets  full  of  seeds,  and  holes 
in  all  her  pockets,  has  covered  with  hungry  plebeian  growths, 
which  fight  for  life  with  each  other,  until  some  of  them  get  broad- 
leaved  and  succulent,  and  you  have  a  coarse  vegetable  tapestry 
which  Raphael  would  not  have  disdained  to  spread  over  the  fore- 
ground of  his  masterpiece.  The  Professor  pretends  that  he  found 
such  a  one  in  Charles  Street,  which,  in  its  dare-devil  impudence 
of  rough-and-tumble  vegetation,  beat  the  pretty-behaved  flower 
beds  of  Public  Garden  as  ignominiously  as  a  group  of  young  tat- 
terdemalions playing  pitch-and-toss  beats  a  row  of  Sunday  School 
boys  with  their  teacher  at  their  head. 

But  then  the  Professor  has  one  of  his  burrows  in  that  region, 
and  puts  everything  in  high  colors  relating  to  it.  That  is  his 
way  about   everything. —  I    hold    any   man    cheap, —  he   said, —  of 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES  221 1 

whom  nothing  stronger  can  be  uttered  than  that  all  his  geese 
are  swans, —  How  is  that,  Professor?  said  I;  —  I  should  have  set 
you  down  for  one  of  that  sort. —  Sir,  said  he,  I  am  proud  to  say 
that  Nature  has  so  far  enriched  me,  that  I  cannot  own  so  much 
as  a  duck  without  seeing  in  it  as  pretty  a  swan  as  ever  swam 
the  basin  in  the  garden  of  Luxembourg.  And  the  Professor 
showed  the  whites  of  his  eyes  devoutly,  like  one  returning  thanks 
after  a  dinner  of  many  courses. 

I  don't  know  anything  sweeter  than  this  leaking  in  of  Nature 
through  all  the  cracks  in  the  walls  and  floors  of  cities.  You  heap 
up  a  million  tons  of  hewn  rocks  on  a  square  mile  or  two  of  earth 
which  was  green  once.  The  trees  look  down  from  the  hillsides 
and  ask  each  other,  as  they  stand  on  tiptoe,  « What  are  these 
people  about  ?  '*  And  the  small  herbs  at  their  feet  look  up  and 
whisper  back,  "We  will  go  and  see.^^  So  the  small  herbs  pack 
themselves  up  in  the  least  possible  bundles,  and  wait  until  the  . 
wind  steals  to  them  at  night,  and  whispers, —  <^  Come  with  me.* 
Then  they  go  softly  with  it  into  the  great  city, —  one  to  a  cleft 
in  the  pavement,  one  to  a  spout  on  the  roof,  one  to  a  seam  in 
the  marbles  over  a  rich  gentleman's  bones,  and  one  to  the  grave 
without  a  stone  where  nothing  but  a  man  is  buried, —  and  there 
they  grow,  looking  down  on  the  generations  of  men  from  moldy 
roofs,  looking  up  from  between  the  less-trodden  pavements,  looking 
out  through  iron  cemetery  railings.  Listen  to  them,  when  there 
is  only  a  light  breath  stirring,  and  you  will  hear  them  saying  to 
each  other,  "  Wait  awhile !  "  The  words  run  along  the  telegraph 
of  the  narrow  green  lines  that  border  the  roads  leading  from  the 
city,  until  they  reach  the  slope  of  the  hills,  and  the  trees  repeat 
in  low  murmurs  to  each  other,  "  Wait  awhile !  *  By  and  by  the 
flow  of  life  in  the  streets  ebbs,  and  the  old  leafy  inhabitants  — 
the  smaller  tribes  always  in  front  —  saunter  in,  one  by  one,  very 
careless  seemingly,  but  very  tenacious,  until  they  swarm  so  that 
the  great  stones  gape  from  each  other  with  the  crowding  of  their 
roots,  and  the  feldspar  begins  to  be  picked  out  of  the  granite  to 
find  them  food.  At  last  the  trees  take  up  their  solemn  line  of 
march,  and  never  rest  until  they  have  encamped  in  the  market 
place.  Wait  long  enough  and  you  will  find  an  old  doting  oak 
hugging  a  huge  worn  block  in  its  yellow  underground  arms;  that 
was  the  corner  stone  of  the  statehouse.  Oh,  so  patient  she  is, 
this  imperturbable  Nature' 

—  Let  us  cry!  — 


-2  12  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

But  all  this  has  nothing  to  do  with  my  walks  and  talks  with  the 
schoolmistress.  I  did  not  say  that  I  would  not  tell  you  some- 
thing about  them.  Let  me  alone,  and  I  shall  talk  to  you  more 
than  I  ought  to,  probably.  We  never  tell  our  secrets  to  people 
that  pump  for  them. 

Books  we  talked  about,  and  '  education.  It  was  her  duty  to 
know  something  of  these,  and  of  course  she  did.  Perhaps  I  was 
somewhat  more  learned  than  she,  but  I  found  that  the  difference 
between  her  reading  and  mine  was  like  that  of  a  man's  and  a 
woman's  dusting  a  library.  The  man  flaps  about  with  a  bunch 
of  feathers;  the  woman  goes  to  work  softly  with  a  cloth.  She 
does  not  raise  half  the  dust,  nor  fill  her  own  eyes  and  mouth  with 
it, — but  she  goes  into  all  the  corners  and  attends  to  the  leaves  as 
much  as  the  covers.  Books  are  the  negative  pictures  of  thought, 
and  the  more  sensitive  the  mind  that  receives  their  images,  the 
more  nicely  the  finest  lines  are  reproduced.  A  woman  (of  the 
right  kind),  reading  aftjr  a  man,  follows  him  as  Ruth  followed 
the  reapers  of  Boaz,  and  her  gleanings  are  often  the  finest  of  the 
wheat. 

But  it  was  in  talking  of  life  that  we  came  most  nearly  to- 
gether. I  thought  I  knew  something  about  that, —  that  I  could 
speak  or  write  about  it  somewhat  to  the  purpose. 

To  take  up  this  fluid  earthly  being  of  ours  as  a  sponge  sucks 
up  water, —  to  be  steeped  and  soaked  in  its  realities  as  a  hide  fills 
its  pores  lying  seven  years  in  a. tan  pit, —  to  have  winnowed  every 
wave  of  it  as  a  mill  wheel  works  up  the  stream  that  runs  through 
the  flume  upon  its  float  boards, —  to  have  curled  up  in  the  keenest 
spasms  and  flattened  out  in  the  laxest  languors  of  this  breathing 
sickness  which  keeps  certain  parcels  of  matter  uneasy  for  three 
or  four  score  years, —  to  have  fought  all  the  devils  and  clasped 
all  the  angels  of  its  delirium,  and  then,  just  at  the  point  when 
the  white-hot  passions  have  cooled  down  to  cherry  red,  plimge 
our  experience  into  the  ice-cold  stream  of  some  human  language 
or  other,  one  might  think  would  end  in  a  rhapsody  with  some- 
thing of  spring  and  temper  in  it.  All  this  I  thought  my  power 
and  province. 

The  schoolmistress  had  tried  life  too.  Once  in  a  while  one 
meets  with  a  single  soul  greater  than  all  the  living  pageant  that 
passes  before  it.  As  the  pale  astronomer  sits  in  his  study,  with 
sunken  eyes  and  thin  fingers,  and  weighs  Uranus  or  Neptune  as 
in  a  balance,  so  there  are  meek,  slight  women  who  have  weighed 


OLIVER    WENDELL    HOLMES  22 13 

all  this  planetary  life  can  offer,  and  hold  it  like  a  bauble  in  the 
palm  of  their  slender  hands.  This  was  one  of  them.  Fortune 
had  left  her,  sorrow  had  bt^ptized  her  ;  the  routine  of  labor  and 
the  loneliness  of  almost  friendless  city  life  were  before  her.  Yet, 
as  I  looked  upon  her  tranquil  face,  gradually  regaining  a  cheer- 
fulness that  was  often  sprightly,  as  she  became  interested  in  the 
various  matters  we  talked  about  and  places  we  visited.  I  saw 
that  eye  and  lip  and  every  shifting  lineament  were  made  for  love, 
—  unconscious  of  their  sweet  office  as  yet,  and  meeting  the  cold 
aspect  of  Duty  with  the  natural  graces  which  were  meant  for  the 
reward  of  nothing  less  than  the  Great  Passion. 

I  never  spoke  one  word  of  love  to  the  schoolmistress  in  the 
course  of  these  pleasant  walks.  It  seemed  to  me  that  we  talked 
of  everything  but  love  on  that  particular  morning.  There  was, 
perhaps,  a  little  more  timidity  and  hesitancy  on  my  part  than  I 
have  commonly  shown  among  our  people  at  the  boarding  house. 
In  fact,  I  considered  myself  the  master  at  the  breakfast-table;  but, 
somehow,  I  could  not  command  myself  just  then  so  well  as  usual. 
The  truth  is,  I  had  secured  a  passage  to  Liverpool  in  the  steamer 
which  was  to  leave  at  noon,  with  the  condition,  however,  of  being 
released  in  case  circumstances  occurred  to  detain  me.  The  school- 
mistress knew  nothing  about  all  this,  of  course,  as  yet. 

It  was  on  the  Common  that  we  were  walking.  The  mall,  or 
boulevard  of  our  Common,  you  know,  has  various  branches  leading 
from  it  in  different  directions.  One  of  these  runs  downward  from 
opposite  Joy  Street  southward  across  the  whole  length  of  the 
Common  to  Boylston  Street.  We  called  it  the  long  path,  and  were 
fond  of  it. 

I  felt  very  weak,  indeed  (though  of  a  tolerably  robust  habit), 
as  we  came  opposite  the  head  of  this  path  on  that  morning.  I 
think  I  tried  to  speak  twice  without  making  myself  distinctly  au- 
dible. At  last  I  got  out  the  question, —  Will  you  take  the  long 
path  with  me?  —  Certainly, —  said  the  schoolmistress, —  with  much 
pleasure. —  Think, —  I  said, —  before  you  answer;  if  you  take  the 
long  path  with  me  now,  I  shall  interpret  it  that  we  are  to  part 
no  more !  —  The  schoolmistress  stepped  back  with  a  sudden  move- 
ment, as  if  an  arrow  had  struck  her. 

One  of  the  long  granite  blocks  used  as  seats  was  hard  by, — 
the  one  you  may  still  see  close  by  the  Gingko-tree. —  Pray,  sit 
down, —  I  said. —  No,  no, —  she  answered,  softly;  I  will  walk  the 
long  path  with  you! 


2214  OLIVER  WENDELL   HOLMES 

The  old  gentleman  who  sits  opposite  met  us  walking,  arm  in 
arm,  about  the  middle  of  the  long  path,  and  said  very  charmingly, 
**  Good-morning,  my  dears !  ** 

Complete.     From  «The  Autocrat  of  the 
Breakfast-Table. » 


ON  DANDIES 

DANDIES  are  not  good  for  much,  but  they  are  good  for  some- 
thing. They  invent  or  keep  in  circulation  those  conversa- 
tional blank  checks  or  counters,  which  intellectual  capi- 
talists may  sometimes  find  it  worth  their  while  to  borrow  of 
them.  They  are  useful,  too,  in  keeping  up  the  standard  of 
dress,  which,  but  for  them,  would  deteriorate,  and  become,  what 
some  old  fools  would  have  it,  a  matter  of  convenience,  not  of 
taste  and  art.  Yes,  I  like  dandies  well  enough, — on  one  condi- 
tion. 

What  is  that,  sir  ?  —  said  the  divinity  student. 
That  they  have  pluck.  I  find  that  lies  at  the  bottom  of  all 
true  dandyism.  A  little  boy  dressed  up  very  fine,  who  puts  his 
finger  in  his  mouth  and  takes  to  crying,  if  other  boys  make  fun 
of  him,  looks  very  silly.  But  if  he  turns  red  in  the  face  and 
knotty  in  the  fists,  and  makes  an  example  of  the  biggest  of  his 
assailants,  throwing  off  his  fine  Leghorn  and  his  thickly-buttoned 
jacket,  if  necessary,  to  consummate  the  act  of  justice,  his  small 
toggery  takes  on  the  splendors  of  the  crested  helmet  that  fright- 
ened Astyanax.  You  remember  that  the  Duke  said  his  dandy 
officers  were  his  best  officers.  The  ^<  Sunday  blood,  '*  the  super- 
superb  sartorial  equestrian  of  our  annual  fast  day,  is  not  impos- 
ing or  dangerous.  But  such  fellows  as  Brummel  and  D'Orsay 
and  Byron  are  not  to  be  snubbed  quite  so  easily.  Look  out  for 
"la  main  de  fer  sous  le  gant  de  velours'^  (which  I  printed  in 
English  the  other  day  without  quotation  marks,  thinking  whether 
any  scarabceus  criticus  would  add  this  to  his  globe  and  roll  in 
glory  with  it  into  the  newspapers, —  which  he  didn't  do  it,  in  the 
charming  pleonasm  of  the  London  language,  and  therefore  I 
claim  the  sole  merit  of  exposing  the  same).  A  good  many  pow- 
erful and  dangerous  people  have  had  a  decided  dash  of  dandyism 
about  them.  There  was  Alcibiades,  the  "curled  son  of  Clinias,** 
an  accomplished  young  man,  but  what  would  be  called  a  "  swell  * 
in  these  days.     There  was  Aristoteles,  a  very  distinguished  writer, 


OLIVER  WENDELL   HOLMES  2215 

of  whom  you  have  heard, —  a  philosopher  in  short,  whom  it  took 
centuries  to  learn,  centuries  to  unlearn,  and  is  now  going  to  take 
a  generation  or  more  to  learn  over  again.  Regular  dandy,  he 
was.  So  was  Marcus  Antonius;  and  though  he  lost  his  game,  he 
played  for  big  stakes,  and  it  wasn't  his  dandyism  that  spoiled  his 
chance.  Petrarca  was  not  to  be  despised  as  a  scholar  or  a  poet, 
but  he  was  one  of  the  same  sort.  So  was  Sir  Humphry  Davy, 
so  was  Lord  Palmerston,  formerly,  if  I  am  not  forgetful.  Yes, 
—  a  dandy  is  good  for  something  as  such;  and  dandies  such  as  I 
was  just  spealiing  of  have  rocked  this  planet  like  a  cradle, —  aye, 
and  left  it  swinging  to  this  day. 

From  «The  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast- 
Table. » 


ON  «  CHRYSO-ARISTOCRACY  » 

WE  ARE  forming  an  aristocracy,  as  you  may  observe,  in  this 
country, — not  a  gratia- Dei,  nor  a.  jure-divitio  one, —  but  a 
de-facto  upper  stratum  of  being,  which  floats  over  the 
turbid  waves  of  common  life  like  the  iridescent  film  you  may 
have  seen  spreading  over  the  water  about  our  wharves, — very 
splendid,  though  its  origin  may  have  been  tar,  tallow,  train  oil, 
or  other  such  unctuous  commodities.  I  say,  then,  we  are  form- 
ing an  aristocracy;  and,  transitory  as  its  individual  life  often  is, 
it  maintains  itself  tolerably,  as  a  whole.  Of  course,  money  is  its 
corner  stone.  But  now  observe  this.  Money  kept  for  two  or 
three  generations  transforms  a  race — I  don't  mean  merely  in 
manners  and  hereditary  culture,  but  in  blood  and  bone.  Money 
buys  air  and  sunshine,  in  which  children  grow  up  more  kindly, 
of  course,  than  in  close,  back  streets,  it  buys  country  places  to 
give  them  happy  and  healthy  summers,  good  nursing,  good  doc- 
toring, and  the  best  cuts  of  beef  and  mutton.  When  the  spring 
chickens  come  to  market  —  I  beg  your  pardon, —  that  is  not  what 
I  was  going  to  speak  of.  As  the  young  females  of  each  succes- 
sive season  come  on,  the  finest  specimens  among  them,  other 
things  being  equal,  arc  apt  to  attract  those  who  can  afford  the 
expensive  luxury  of  beauty.  The  physical  character  of  the  next 
generation  rises  in  consequence.  It  is  plain  that  certain  families 
have  in  this  way  acquired  an  elevated  type  of  face  and  figure, 
and  that  in  a  small  circle  of  city  connections  one  may  sometimes 
find  models  of  both  sexes  which  one  of  the  rural  counties  would 


22 1 6  OLIVER  WENDELL   HOLMES 

find  it  hard  to  match  from  all  its  townships  put  together.  Be- 
cause there  is  a  good  deal  of  running  down,  of  degeneration  and 
waste  of  life,  among  the  richer  classes,  you  must  not  overlook 
the  equally  obvious  fact  I  have  just  spoken  of, —  which  in  one  or 
two  generations  more  will  be,  I  think,  much  more  patent  than 
just  now. 

The  weak  point  in  our  chryso-aristocracy  is  the  same  I  have 
alluded  to  in  connection  with  cheap  dandyism.  Its  thorough  man- 
hood, its  high-caste  gallantry,  are  not  so  manifest  as  the  plate  glass 
of  its  windows  and  the  more  or  less  legitimate  heraldry  of  its 
coach  panels.  It  is  very  curious  to  observe  of  how  small  account 
military  folks  are  held  among  our  Northern  people.  Our  young 
men  must  gild  their  spurs,  but  they  need  not  win  them.  The  equal 
division  of  property  keeps  the  younger  sons  of  rich  people  above 
the  necessity  of  military  service.  Thus  the  army  loses  an  element 
of  refinement,  and  the  moneyed  upper  class  forgets  what  it  is  to 
count  heroism  among  its  virtues.  Still  I  don't  believe  in  any 
aristocracy,  without  pluck  as  its  backbone.  Ours  may  show  it  when 
the  time  comes,  if  it  ever  does  come.  These  United  States  fur- 
nish the  greatest  market  for  intellectual  green  fruit  of  all  the 
places  in  the  world.  I  think  so,  at  any  rate.  The  demand  for 
intellectual  labor  is  so  enormous  and  the  market  so  far  from  nice, 
that  young  talent  is  apt  to  fair  like  unripe  gooseberries, —  get 
plucked  to  make  a  fool  of.  Think  of  a  country  which  buys  eighty 
thousand  copies  of  the  "  Proverbial  Philosophy,**  while  the  author's 
admiring  countrymen  have  been  buying  twelve  thousand!  How 
can  one  let  his  fruit  hang  in  the  sun  until  it  gets  fully  ripe,  while 
there  are  eighty  thousand  such  hungry  mouths  ready  to  swallow 
'it  and  proclaim  its  praises?  Consequently,  there  never  was  such 
a  collection  of  crude  pippins  and  half-grown  windfalls  as  our  na- 
tive literature  displays  among  its  fruits.  There  are  literary  green- 
groceries at  every  corner,  which  will  buy  anything,  from  a  button- 
pear  to  a  pineapple.  It  takes  long  apprenticeship  to  train  a  whole 
people  to  reading  and  writing.  The  temptation  of  money  and  fame 
is  too  great  for  young  people.     Do  I  not  remember  that  glorious 

moment  when  the  late  Mr.  ,  we  won't  say  who, — editor  of  the 

,  we  won't  say  what,  offered   me  the  sum  of   fifty  cents  per 

double-columned  quarto  page  for  shaking  my  young  boughs  over 
his  foolscap  apron?  Was  it  not  an  intoxicating  vision  of  gold  and 
glory?  I  should  doubtless  have  reveled  in  its  wealth  and  splendor, 
but  for  learning  the  fact  that  the  fifty  cents  was  to  be  considered 


OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES  221 7 

a  rht-'torioal  embellishment  and  by  no  means  a  literal  expression 
of  past  fact  or  present  intention. 

Beware  of  making  your  moral  staple  consist  of  the  negative 
virtues.  It  is  good  to  abstain,  and  teach  others  to  abstain,  frcr.i 
all  that  is  sinful  or  hurtful.  But  making  a  business  of  it  leads 
to  emaciation  of  character,  unless  one  feed  largely  also  on  the 
more  nutritious  diet  of  active  sympathetic  benevolence. 

From  «The  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast- 
Table.® 


22l8 


THOMAS   HOOD 

(1798-1845) 

Ihomas  Hood,  the  most  inveterate  of  all  punsters  and  the  most 
pathetic  of  English  poets,  was  born  in  London,  May  23d, 
1798.  He  was  intended  for  an  engraver,  and  before  giving 
up  the  idea  of  following  that  trade  he  had  developed  a  faculty  for 
drawing  caricatures  which  almost  spoiled  him  as  an  essayist.  As  a 
result  of  it,  he  illustrated  his  sketches  and  finally  came  into  a  totally 
depraved  habit  of  writing  sketches  for  his  illustrations  —  as  when  he 
would  construct  a  disquisition  on  <<Van  Diemen's  Land^*  in  order  to 
introduce  a  picture  of  an  immigrant  family,  with  ^*  demons  ''*  swarming 
around  them.  If  he  wrote  of  Shakespeare  it  would  be  to  introduce 
a  picture  of  a  matron  of  severe  and  menacing  aspect,  armed  with  the 
forces  of  maternity  and  explained  by  the  quotation:  "An  eye  like 
Ma's  (Mars)  to  threaten  and  command."  This  is  so  characteristic 
of  the  prose  of  "  Hood's  Own  >>  that  it  is  not  worth  while  to  attempt 
to  detach  the  text  from  the  punning  pictures.  It  is  on  such  jests, 
some  of  them  forced  when  he  was  exceedingly  sorrowful,  that  Hood's 
reputation  as  a  humorist  chiefly  depends.  As  a  poet,  he  is  one  of 
the  truest  and  tenderest  who  have  ever  written  English.  He  died 
May  3d,  1845.  His  last  lingering  illness  was  glorified  by  the  produc- 
tion of  «  The  Bridge  of  Sighs, "  written,  it  has  been  said,  when  be  was 
already  more  than  half  in  heaven. 


AN  UNDERTAKER 

AN  UNDERTAKER  IS  EH  ill-willcr  to  the  human  race.     He  is  by 
profession  an  enemy  to  his  Species,  and  can  no  more  look 
kindly  at  his  fellows  than  the  Sheriff's  officer ;    for  why  ?  — 
his  profit  begins  with  an  arrest  for  the  Debt  of  Nature!     As  the 
Bailiff   looks   on   a   failing   man,  so   doth   he,  and   with    the   same 
hope,  namely,  to  take  the  body. 

Hence  hath  he  little  sympathy  with  his  kind,  small  pity  for 
the  poor,  and  least  of  all  for  the  widow  and  the  orphans,  whom 
he  regards.  Planter  like,  but  as  so  many  blacks  on  his  estate.  If 
he   have   any  community  of   Feeling,  it   is  with   the    Sexton,  who 


THOMAS  HOOD  2219 

has  likewise  a  percentage  on  the  bills  of  mortality,  and  never 
sees  a  picture  of  health  but  he  longs  to  engrave  it.  Both  have 
the  same  quick  ear  for  a  churchyard  cough,  and  both  the  same 
relish  for  the  same  music,  to  wit,  the  toll  of  Saint  Sepulchre. 
Moreover  both  go  constantly  in  black, —  howbeit  'tis  no  mourning 
suit,  but  a  livery, —  for  he  grieves  no  more  for  the  defunct  than 
the  bird  of  the  same  plumage  that  is  the  undertaker  to  a  dead 
horse. 

As  a  neighbor  he  is  to  be  shunned.  To  live  opposite  to  him 
is  to  fall  under  the  evil  eye.  Like  the  witch  that  forespeaks 
other  cattle,  he  would  rot  you  as  soon  as  look  at  you,  if  it  could 
be  done  at  a  glance;  but  that  magic  being  out  of  date,  he  con- 
tents himself  with  choosing  the  very  spot  on  the  house  front  that 
shall  serve  for  a  hatchment.  Thenceforward  he  watches  your 
going  out  and  your  coming  in;  your  rising  up  and  your  lying 
down,  and  all  your  domestic  imports  of  drink  and  victual,  so  that, 
the  veriest  she  gossip  in  the  parish  is  not  more  familiar  with 
your  modes  and  means  of  living,  nor  knows  so  certainly  whether 
the  Visitor,  that  calls  daily  in  his  chariot,  is  a  mere  friend  or  a 
physician.  Also  he  knows  your  age  to  a  year,  and  your  height 
to  an  inch,  for  he  has  measured  you  with  his  eye  for  a  coffin, 
and  your  ponderosity  to  a  pound,  for  he  hath  an  interest  in  the 
dead  weight,  and  hath  so  far  inquired  into  your  fortune  as  to 
guess  with  what  equipage  you  shall  travel  on  your  last  journey. 
For,  in  professional  curiosity,  he  is  truly  a  Paul  Pry.  Wherefore 
to  dwell  near  him  is  as  melancholy  as  to  live  in  view  of  a 
churchyard;  to  be  within  sound  of  his  hammering  is  to  hear  the 
knocking  at  Death's  door. 

To  be  friends  with  an  undertaker  is  as  impossible  as  to  be  the 
crony  of  a  crocodile.  He  is  by  trade  a  hypocrite,  and  deals  of 
necessity  in  mental  reservations  and  equivoques.  Thus  he  drinks 
to  your  good  health,  but  hopes,  secretly,  it  will  not  endure.  He 
is  glad  to  find  you  so  hearty  —  as  to  be  apoplectic;  and  rejoices 
to  see  you  so  stout  —  with  a  short  neck.  He  bids  you  beware  of 
your  old  gout  —  and  recommends  a  quack  doctor.  He  laments 
the  malignant  fever  so  prevalent — and  wishes  you  may  get  it. 
He  compliments  your  complexion  —  when  it  is  blue  or  yellow 
admires  your  upright  carriage — and  hopes  it  will  break  down. 
Wishes  you  good  day,  but  means  everlasting  night;  and  commends 
his   respects   to  your  father  and   mother  —  but    hopes    you  do   not 


THOMAS   HOOD 


honor  them.  In  short,  his  good  wishes  are  treacherous;  his  in- 
quiries are  suspicious;  and  his  civilities  are  dangerous;  as  when 
he  proffereth  the  use  of  his  coach  —  or  to  see  you  home. 

For  the  rest,  he  is  still  at  odds  with  humanity;  at  constant 
issue  with  its  Naturalists,  and  its  philanthropists,  its  sages,  its 
counselors,  and  its  legislators.  '  For  example,  he  praises  the 
weather  —  with  the  wind  at  east;  and  rejoices  in  a  wet  Spring 
and  Fall,  for  Death  and  he  reap  with  one  sickle,  and  have  a 
good  or  a  bad  harvest  in  common.  He  objects  not  to  bones  in 
bread  (being  as  it  were  his  own  diet),  nor  to  ill  drugs  in  beer,  nor 
to  sugar  of  lead  or  arsenical  finings  in  wine,  nor  to  ardent  spirits, 
nor  to  interment  in  churches.  Neither  doth  he  discountenance 
the  sitting  on  infants ;  nor  the  swallowing  of  plum  stones ;  nor  of 
cold  ices  at  hot  balls;  nor  the  drinking  of  embrocations,  nay  he 
hath  been  known  to  contend  that  the  wrong  dose  was  the  right 
one.  He  approves,  contra  the  Physicians,  of  a  damp  bed  and 
wet  feet  —  of  a  hot  head  and  cold  extremities,  and  lends  his 
own  countenance  to  the  natural  smallpox,  rather  than  encourage 
vaccination  —  which  he  calls  flying  in  the  face  of  Providence. 
Add  to  these  a  free  trade  in  poisons,  whereby  the  Oxalic  crys- 
tals may  currently  become  proxy  for  the  epsom  ones;  and  the 
corrosive  sublimate  as  common  as  salt  in  porridge.  To  the  same 
end  he  would  give  unto  every  cockney  a  privilege  to  shoot, 
v/ithin  ten  miles  around  London,  without  a  taxed  license,  and 
would  never  concur  in  a  fine  or  deodand  for  fast  driving,  except 
the  vehicle  were  a  hearse.  Thus,  whatever  the  popular  cry  he 
runs  counter;  a  heretic  in  opinion,  and  a  hypocrite  in  practice, 
as  when  he  pretends  to  be  sorrowful  at  a  Funeral;  or,  what  is 
worse,  affects  to  pity  the  ill-paid  poor,  and  yet  helpeth  to  screw 
them  down. 

To  conclude,  he  is  a  personage  of  ill  presage  to  the  house  of 
life;  a  raven  on  the  chimney  pot  —  a  dead  watch  in  the  wainscot 
—  a  winding  sheet  in  the  candle.  To  meet  with  him  is  ominous. 
His  looks  are  sinister;  his  dress  is  lugubrious;  his  speech  is 
prophetic;  and  his  touch  is  mortal.  Nevertheless,  he  hath  one 
merit,  and  in  this  our  world,  and  in  these  our  times,  it  is  a 
main  one;  namely,  that  whatever  he  undertakes  he  performs. 

Complete. 


THOMAS   HOOD 


THE   MORNING  CALL 


1   CANNOT  conceive  any  prospect  more  agreeable  to  a  weary  trav- 
eler than  the  approach  to   Bedfordshire.     Each  valley  reminds 

him  of  Sleepy  Hollow;  the  fleecy  clouds  seem  like  blankets; 
the  lakes  and  ponds  are  clean  sheets;  the  setting  sun  looks  like 
a  warming  pan.  He  dreams  of  dreams  to  come.  His  traveling 
cap  transforms  to  a  nightcap;  the  coach  Hning  feels  softlier 
squabbed ;  the  guard's  horn  plays  «  Lullaby. »  Every  flower  by 
the  roadside  is  a  poppy.  Each  jolt  of  the  coach  is  but  a  drowsy 
stumble  upstairs.  The  lady  opposite  is  the  chambermaid;  the 
gentleman  beside  her  is  Boots.  He  sHdes  into  imaginary  sHp- 
pers;  he  winks  and  nods  flirtingly  at  Sleep,  so  soon  to  be  his 
cAvn.  Although  the  wheels  may  be  rattling  into  vigilant  Wake- 
field, it  appears  to  him  to  be  sleepy  Ware,  with  its  great  bed,  a 
whole  county  of  down,  spread  "all  before  him  where  to  choose 
his  place  of  rest.'' 

It  was  in  a  similar  mood,  after  a  long,  dusty,  droughty  dog- 
day's  journey,  that  I  entered  the  Dolphin  at  Bedhampton.  I 
nodded  in  at  the  door;  winked  at  the  lights;  blinked  at  the  com- 
pany in  the  coffeeroom;  yawned  for  a  glass  of  negus;  swallowed 
it  with  my  eyes  shut,  as  though  it  had  been  «  a  pint  of  nappy  " ; 
surrendered  my  boots;  clutched  a  candlestick;  and  blundered,  slip- 
shod, up  the  stairs  to  number  nine. 

Blessed  be  the  man,  says  Sancho  Panza,  who  first  invented 
sleep;  and  blessed  be  heaven  that  he  did  not  take  out  a  patent 
and  keep  his  discovery  to  himself.  My  clothes  dropped  off  me; 
I  saw  through  a  drowsy  haze  the  likeness  of  a  four-poster;  "Great 
Nature's  second  course'^  was  spread  before  me;  and  I  fell  to 
without  a  long  grace! 

Here's  a  body  —  there's  a  bed! 
There's  a  pillow  —  here's  a  head! 
There's  a  curtain  —  here's  a  light! 
There's  a  puff  —  and  so  Good-Nightl 

It  would  have  been  gross  improvidence  to  waste  more  words 
on  the  occasion,  for  I  was  to  be  roused  up  again  at  four  o'clock 
the  next  morning  to  proceed  by  the  early  coach.  I  determined, 
therefore,  to  do  as  much  sleep  within  the  interval  as  I  could; 
and  in  a  minute,  short  measure,  I  was  with  that  mandarin,  Mor- 
pheus, in  his  Land  of  Nod. 


2  2  22  THOMAS  HOOD 

How  intensely  we  sleep  when  we  are  fatigued !  Some  as  sound 
as  tops,  others  as  fast  as  churches.  For  my  own  part  I  must 
have  slept  as  fast  as  a  Cathedral,— as  fast  as  Young  Rapid  wished 
his  father  to  slumber;  —  nay,  as  fast  as  the  French  veteran  who 
dreams  over  again  the  whole  Russian  campaign  while  dozing  in 
his  sentry  box.  I  must  have  slept  as  fast  as  a  fast  post  coach  in 
my  four-poster — or  rather  I  must  have  slept  « like  winkin,*  for 
I  seemed  hardly  to  have  closed  my  eyes  when  a  voice  cried, 
*  Sleep  no  more !  ^^ 

It  was  that  of  Boots,  calling  and  knocking  at  the  door,  whilst 
through  the  keyhole  a  ray  of  candlelight  darted  into  my  chamber. 

«  Who's  there  ?» 

« It's  me,  your  honor,  I  humbly  ax  pardon  —  but  somehow  I've 
oversleeped  myself,  and  the  coach  be  gone  by !  '* 

"The  devil  it  is!  —  then  I  have  lost  my  place!" 

«  No,  not  exactly,  your  honor.  She  stops  a  bit  at  the  Dragon, 
t'other  end  of  the  town;  and  if  your  honor  wouldn't  object  to  a 
bit  of  a  run  —  * 

"That's  enough  —  come  in.  Put  down  the  light — and  take  up 
that  bag  —  my  coat  over  your  arm  —  and  waistcoat  with  it  —  and 
that  cravat.  * 

Boots  acted  according  to  orders.  I  jumped  out  of  bed  —  pock- 
eted my  nightcap  —  screwed  on  my  stockings  —  plunged  into  my 
trousers  —  rammed  my  feet  into  wrong  right  and  left  boots  — 
tumbled  down  the  back  stairs  —  burst  through  a  door,  found  my- 
self in  the  fresh  air  of  the  stable  yard  holding  a  lantern,  which, 
in  sheer  haste,  or  spleen,  I  pitched  into  the  horsepond.  Then 
began  the  race,  during  which  I  completed  my  toilet,  running  and 
,  firing  a  verbal  volley  at  Boots,  as  often  as  I  could  spare  breath 
for  one. 

«  And  you  call  this  waking  me  up — for  the  coach  ? — My  waist- 
coat!—Why  I  could  wake  myself —  too  late  — without  being  called. 
Now  my  cravat  —  and  be  hanged  to  you !  —  Confound  that  stone !  — 
and  give  me  my  coat.  A  nice  road  for  a  run. —  I  suppose  you 
keep  it  —  on  purpose.  How  many  gentlemen — may  you  do  a  week  ? 
—  I'll  tell  you  what.     If  I  —  run — a  foot  —  further — '' 

I  paused  for  wind,  while  Boots  had  stopped  of  his  own  accord. 
We  had  turned  a  comer  into  a  small  square;  and  on  the  opposite 
side  certainly  stood  an  inn  with  the  sign  of  the  Dragon,  but  with- 
out any  sign  of  a  coach  at  the  door.  Boots  stood  beside  me,  aghast, 
and  surveying  the  house  from  the  top  to  the  bottom ;  not  a  wreath 


THOMAS   HOOD  2223 

of  smoke  came  from  the  chimney;  the  curtains  were  closed  over 
every  window,  and  the  door  was  closed  and  shuttered.  I  could 
hardly  contain  my  indignation  when  I  looked  at  the  infernal  som- 
nolent visage  of  the  fellow,  hardly  yet  broad  awake  —  he  kept 
rubbing  his  black-lead  eyes  with  his  hands,  as  if  he  would  have 
rubbed  them  out. 

*  Yes,  you  may  well  look  —  you  have  overslept  yourself  with  a 
vengeance.  The  coach  must  have  passed  an  hour  ago  —  and  they 
have  all  gone  to  bed  again !  " 

*  No,  there  be  no  coach,  sure  enough,'^  soliloquized  Boots,  slowly 

raising  his  eyes  from  the  road,  where  he  had  been  searching  for 

the    track  of    recent   wheels,  and    fixing   them  with  a   deprecating 

expression  on  my  face.      ^*  No,  there's  no  coach  —  I  ax  a  thousand 

pardons,  your  honor  —  but  you  see,  sir,  what  with  waiting  on  her, 

and  talking  on  her,  and   expecting  on  her,  and  giving  notice  on 

her,  every  night  of  my  life,  your  honor — why  I  sometimes  dreams 

on  her — and  that's  the  case  as  is  now!" 

Complete. 


2224 


THEODORE  HOOK 

(1788-^1841) 

Iheodore  Edward  Hook,  one  of  the  great  <^wits*^  of  the  times 
of  the  Georges,  left  little  that  belongs  to  permanent  litera- 
ture. His  celebrity  rests  largely  on  his  <^  improvisations, >' 
but  in  his  essays,  sketches,  and  novels  there  are  frequent  flashes  of 
the  brilliancy  which  made  him  such  a  favorite  at  court  that  he  was 
appointed  Governor  of  Mauritius,  where  he  remained  from  181 2  to  18 17. 
As  a  result  of  a  defalcation  for  which  he  may  not  have  been  responsi- 
ble, he  was  recalled  to  England  and  imprisoned.  Some  of  his  best 
work  was  done  in  jail;  and  he  would  have  been  fortunate  had  he  re- 
mained there,  as  on  his  release  he  spent  the  rest  of  his  life  largely 
in  the  attempt  to  work  all  day  and  drink  all  night,— dying  as  a  re- 
sult of  it,  August  24th,  1 841,  «done  up  in  purse,  in  mind,  and  in  body 
too,»  as  he  said  of  himself  just  before  his  death.  It  is  said  that  he 
is  the  original  of  Thackeray's  <'Mr.  Wagg.* 


ON   CERTAIN   ATROCITIES   OF   HUMOR 

THERE  is  one  class  of  people  who,  with  a  depravity  of  appetite 
not  excelled  by  that  of  the  celebrated  Anna  Maria  Schur- 
man,  who  rejoiced  in  eating-  spiders,  thirst  after  puns.  If 
you  fall  in  with  these,  you  have  no  resource  but  to  indulge  them 
to  their  hearts'  content;  but,  in  order  to  rescue  yourself  from 
the  imputation  of  believing  punning  to  be  wit,  quote  the  defini- 
tion of  Swift,  and  be,  like  him,  as  inveterate  a  punster  as  you 
possibly  can,  immediately  after  resting  everything,  and  hazarding 
all,  upon  the  principle  that  the  worse  the  pun  the  better. 

In  order  to  be  prepared  for  this  sort  of  piinic  war  (for  the 
disorder  is  provocative  and  epidemic),  the  moment  any  one  gen- 
tleman or  lady  has,  as  they  say  in  Scotland,  « let  a  pun,  '*  ever)^- 
body  else  in  the  room  who  can,  or  cannot  do  the  same,  sets  to 
work  to  endeavor  to  emulate  the  example.  From  that  period  all 
rational  conversation  is  at  an  end,  and  a  jargon  of  nonsense  suc- 
ceeds, which  lasts  till  the  announcement  of  coffee,  or  supper,  or 
the  carriages,   puts  a  happy  termination  to  the  riot. 


THEODORE  HOOK  2225 

Addison  says,  **  One  may  say  of  a  pun  as  the  countryman  de- 
scribed his  nightingale,  that  it  is  vox  et  prcBterea  nihil,  a  sound, 
and  nothing  but  a  sound  '^ ;  and  in  another  place  he  tells  us  that 
"  the  greatest  authors  in  their  most  serious  works  make  frequent 
use  of  puns;  the  sermons  of  Bishop  Andrews,  and  the  tragedies 
of  Shakespeare  are  full  of  them;  if  a  sinner  was  punned  into 
repentance  as  in  the  latter,  nothing  is  more  usual  than  to  see  a 
hero  weeping  and  grumbling  for  a  dozen  lines  together  '^ ;  but  he 
also  says,  "  it  is  indeed  impossible  to  kill  a  weed  which  the  soil 
has  a  natural  disposition  to  produce.  The  seeds  of  punning  are 
in  the  minds  of  all  men,  and  though  they  may  be  subdued  by 
reason,  reflection,  and  good  sense,  they  will  be  very  apt  to  shoot 
up  in  the  greatest  genius  that  is  not  broken  and  cultivated  by 
the  rules  of  art. '^ 

Here  is  something  like  a  justification  of  the  enormity;  and, 
as  the  pupil  is  to  mix  in  all  societies,  he  may  as  well  be  pre- 
pared. 

Puns  may  be  divided  into  different  classes;  they  may  be 
made  in  different  ways,  introduced  by  passing  circumstances,  or 
by  references  to  bygone  events;  they  may  be  thrown  in  anec- 
dotically,  or  conundrumwise.  It  is  to  be  observed  that  feeling, 
or  pity,  or  commiseration,  or  grief  are  not  to  stand  in  the  way 
of  a  pun  —  that  personal  defects  are  to  be  made  available,  and 
that  sense,  so  as  the  sound  answers,  has  nothing  to  do  with  the 
business. 

If  a  man  is  pathetically  describing  the  funeral  of  his  mother, 
or  sister,  or  wife,  it  is  quite  allowable  to  call  it  a  ''*-\)\z.Q)e.-burying 
party,'*  or  to  talk  of  a  "fit  of  coffin^^\  a  weeping  relative  strug- 
gling to  conceal  his  grief  may  be  likened  to  a  commander  of 
'•^private  tears " ;  throw  in  a  joke  about  the  phrase  of  "  funerals 
performed,''^  and  a  XQ-hearsal;  and  wind  up  with  the  anagram 
real-fun,  funeral. 

I  give  this  instance  first,  in  order  to  explain  that  nothing, 
however  solemn  the  subject,  is  to  stand  in  the  way  of  a  pun. 

It  is  allowable,  when  you  have  run  a  subject  dry  in  English, 
to  hitch  in  a  bit  of  any  other  language  which  may  sound  to 
your  liking.  For  instance,  on  a  fishing  party.  You  say  fishing 
is  out  of  your  line;  yet,  if  you  did  not  keep  a  float,  you  would 
deserve  a  rod;  and  if  anybody  affects  to  find  fault  with  your 
joke,  exclaim,  "Oh,  vous  bite !  ^  There  you  have  line,  rod^  float, 
VI — 140 


2  2  26  THEODORE  HOOK 

and  bait  ready  to  your  hand.  Call  two  noodles  from  the  city  In 
a  punt,  endeavoring  to  catch  small  fry,  '■'•East  Angles^'* \  or,  if 
you  please,  observe  that  "  the  punters  are  losing  the  fish,  **  "  catch- 
ing nothing  but  a  cold,*  or  that  **  the  fish  are  too  deep  for  them.* 
Call  the  Thames  a  "  tidy  '*  river ;  but  say  you  prefer  the  his  in 
hot  weather. 

Personal  deformities  or  constitutional  calamities  are  always  to 
be  laid  hold  of.  If  anybody  tells  you  that  a  dear  friend  has 
lost  his  sight,  observe  that  it  will  make  him  more  hospitable 
than  ever,  since  now  he  would  be  glad  to  see  anybody.  If  a 
clergyman  break  his  leg,  remark  that  he  is  no  longer  a  clergy- 
man, but  a  lajne  man.  If  a  poet  is  seized  with  apoplexy,  affect 
to  disbelieve  it,  although  you  know  it  to  be  true,  in  order  to 
say:  — 

*  Poeta  nascitur  nan  '•Jit  *  *  / 

and  then,  to  carry  the  joke  one  step  further,  add,  «that  it  is  not 
a  fit  subject  for  a  jest.»  A  man  falling  into  a  tanpit  you  may 
call  "  sinking  in  the  sublime " ;  a  climbing  boy  suffocated  in  a 
chimney  meets  with  a  sootable  death;  and  a  pretty  girl  having 
caught  the  smallpox  is  to  be  much  pitted.  On  the  subject  of 
the  ear  and  its  defects,  talk  first  of  something  in  which  a  cow 
sticks,  and  end  by  telling  the  story  of  the  man  who,  having  taken 
great  pains  to  explain  something  to  his  companion,  at  last  got 
into  a  rage  at  his  apparent  stupidity,  and  exclaimed:  «Why,  my 
dear  sir,  don't  you  comprehend  ?  The  thing  is  as  plain  as  A,  B, 
C.»     "-l  dare  say  it  is,»  said  the  other;    «but  I  am  D,  E,  F.» 

It  may  be  as  well  to  give  the  beginner  something  of  a  notion 
of  the  use  he  may  make  of  the  most  ordinary  words  for  the  pur- 
poses of  quibbleism.  For  instance,  in  the  way  of  observation:  — 
The  loss  of  a  hat  is  always  felt;  if  you  don't  like  sugar,  you 
may  lump  it;  a  glazier  is  a.  panes-tstking  man,  candles  are  burnt 
because  wick-ed  things  always  come  to  light;  a  lady  who  takes 
you  home  from  a  party  is  kind  in  her  carriage,  and  you  say 
nunc  est  ridendum  when  you  step  into  it;  if  it  happen  to  be 
a  chariot,  she  is  a  charitable  person;  birds'  nests  and  king-killing 
are  synonymous,  because  they  are  high  trees  on;  a  Bill  for  build- 
ing a  bridge  should  be  sanctioned  by  the  Court  of  Arches  as 
well  as  the  House  of  Piers;  when  a  man  is  dull,  he  goes  to  the 
seaside   to  Brighton;   a  Cockney  lover,  when   sentimental,  should 


THEODORE   HOOK  2227 

live  in  Heigh  Hohurn;  the  greatest  fibber  is  the  man  most  to 
re-lie  upon;  a  dean  expecting  a  bishopric  looks  for  lazvn;  a  sni- 
cide  kills  pigs,  and  not  himself;  a  butcher  is  a  gross  man,  but  a 
fig  seller  is  a  grocer;  Joshua  never  had  a  father  or  mother,  be- 
cause he  was  the  son  of  Nmi;  your  grandmother  and  your  gieat- 
grandmother  were  your  aunVs  sisters;  a  leg  of  mutton  is  better 
than  Heaven,  because  nothing  is  better  than  Heaven,  and  a  leg 
of  mutton  is  better  than  nothing. 

Races  are  matters  of  course.  An  ass  never  can  be  a  horse, 
although  he  may  be  a  mayor;  the  Venerable  Bede  was  the  mother 
of  Pearl;  a  baker  makes  bread  when  he  kneads  it;  a  doctor  can- 
not be  a  doctor  all  at  once,  because  he  comes  to  it  by  degrees; 
a  man  hanged  at  Newgate  has  taken  a  drop  too  much;  the  bri- 
dle day  is  that  on  which  a  man  leads  a  woman  to  the  halter; 
never  mind  the  aspirate;  punning's  all  fair,  as  the  archbishop  said 
in  the  dream. 

Puns  interrogatory  are  at  times  serviceable.  You  meet  a  man 
carrying  a  hare:  ask  him  if  it  is  his  own  hare,  or  a  wig?  — 
there  you  stump  him.  Why  is  Parliament  Street  like  a  compen- 
dium ?  Because  it  goes  to  a  bridge.  Why  is  a  man  murdering 
his  mother  in  a  garret  a  worthy  person  ?  Because  he  is  above, 
committing  a  crime.  Instances  of  this  kind  are  innumerable;  and 
if  you  want  to  render  your  question  particularly  pointed,  you  are, 
after  asking  it  once  or  twice,  to  say,  ^^  D'ye  give  it  up  ?  '*  —  then 
favor  your  friends  with  the  solution. 

Puns  scientific  are  effective  whenever  a  scientific  man  or  men 
are  in  company,  because,  in  the  first  place,  they  invariably  hate 
puns,  especially  those  which  are  capable  of  being  twisted  into 
jokes  which  have  no  possible  relation  to  the  science  of  which 
the  words  to  be  joked  upon  are  terms;  and  because,  in  the  next 
place,  dear,  laughing  girls,  who  are  wise  enough  not  to  be  sages, 
will  love  you  for  disturbing  the  self-satisfaction  of  the  philoso- 
phers, and  raising  a  laugh  or  titter  at  their  expense. 

Where  there  are  three  or  four  geologists  of  the  party,  if  they 
talk  of  their  scientific  tours  made  to  collect  specimens,  call  the 
old  ones  "ninny-hammers,"  and  the  young  ones  "chips  of  the  old 
block";  and  then  inform  them  that  claret  is  the  best  specimen 
of  quartz  in  the  world.  If  you  fall  in  with  a  botanist  who  is 
holding  forth,  talk  of  the  quarrels  of  flowers  as  a  sequel  to  the 
loves  of   the    plants,  and   say   they   decide   their  differences   with 


2  2  28  THEODORE  HOOK 

pistols.  In  short,  sacrifice  everything  to  the  pursuit  of  punning, 
and,  in  the  course  of  time,  you  will  acquire  such  a  reputation 
for  waggery,  that  the  whole  company  will  burst  into  an  immod- 
erate fit  of  laughing  if  you  only  ask  the  servants  for  bread,  or 
say  "No*'  to  the  offer  of  a  cutlet. 

Complete. 


2229 


RICHARD   HOOKER 

{c.  1 5 53- 1600 j 

(ooKER  was  once  esteemed  and  studied  as  a  great  theolo^an, 
but  his  prose  is  now  valued  chiefly  as  a  model  of  style.  It 
moves  with  a  graceful  and  easy  rhythm,  the  cadences  of 
which  are  governed  by  such  a  melodious  tone  succession  as  is  found 
only  in  the  masters  of  language.  He  was  born  in  Exeter,  England, 
c.  1553,  and  educated  for  the  Church  at  Oxford,  where  he  obtained  a 
Fellowship  in  1577.  His  most  celebrated  work,  «  Of  the  Laws  of  Ec- 
clesiastical Polity, »  is  not  intended  to  be  entertaining,  but  it  has  much 
in  it  that  is  stimulating  to  the  mind  and  delightful  to  the  ear  of  all 
who  love  beauty  of  thought  and  language.  Hooker  died  at  Bishops- 
bourne,  England,  November  2d,  1600. 


THE  LAW  WHICH  ANGELS  DO  WORK  BY 

BUT  now  that  we  may  lift  up  our  eyes  (as  it  were)  from  the 
footstool  to  the  throne  of  God,  and  leaving  these  natural, 
consider  a  little  the  state  of  heavenly  and  divine  creatures; 
touching  angels,  which  are  spirits  immaterial  and  intellectual,  the 
glorious  inhabitants  of  those  sacred  palaces,  where  nothing  but 
light  and  blessed  immortality,  no  shadow  of  matter  for  tears, 
discontentments,  griefs,  and  uncomfortable  passions  to  work  upon, 
but  all  joy,  tranquillity,  and  peace,  even  forever  and  ever  doth 
dwell;  as  in  number  and  order  they  are  huge,  mighty,  and  royal 
armies,  so  likewise  in  perfection  of  obedience  unto  that  law, 
v/hich  the  Highest,  whom  they  adore,  love,  and  imitate,  hath 
imposed  upon  them,  such  observants  they  are  thereof,  that  our 
Savior  himself  being  to  set  down  the  perfect  idea  of  that  which 
we  are  to  pray  and  wish  for  on  earth,  did  not  teach  to  pray  or 
wish  for  more  than  only  that  here  it  might  be  with  us,  as  with 
them  it  is  in  heaven.  God,  which  moveth  more  natural  agents  as 
an  efficient  only,  doth  otherwise  move  intellectual  creatures,  and 
especially  his  holy  angels;  for  beholding  the  face  of  God,  in  ad- 
miration  of   so  great   excellency    they    all    adore   him;    and   being 


2230 


RICHARD   HOOKER 


rapt  with  the  love  of  his  beauty,  they  cleave  inseparably  forever 
unto  him.  Desire  to  resemble  him  in  goodness  maketh  them 
unweariable  and  even  unsatiable  in  their  longing  to  do  by  all 
means  all  manner  of  good  unto  all  the  creatures  of  God,  but  espe- 
cially unto  the  children  of  men;  in  the  countenance  of  whose 
nature,  looking  downward,  they  behold  themselves  beneath  them- 
selves; even  as  upward,  in  God,  beneath  whom  themselves  are, 
they  see  that  character  which  is  nowhere  but  in  themselves  and 
us  resembled.  Thus  far  even  the  painims  have  approached; 
thus  far  they  have  seen  into  the  doings  of  the  angels  of  God; 
Orpheus  confessing  that  the  fiery  throne  of  God  is  attended  on 
by  those  most  industrious  angels,  careful  how  all  things  are  per- 
formed amongst  men;  and  the  mirror  of  human  wisdom  plainly 
teaching  that  God  moveth  angels,  even  as  that  thing  doth  stir 
man's  heart,  which  is  thereinto  presented  amiable.  Angelical  ac- 
tions may  therefore  be  reduced  unto  these  three  general  kinds: 
first,  most  delectable  love  arising  from  the  visible  apprehension 
of  the  purity,  glory,  and  beauty  of  God,  invisible  saving  only 
unto  spirits  that  are  pure;  second,  adoration  grounded  upon  the 
evidence  of  the  greatness  of  God,  on  whom  they  see  how  all 
things  depend;  third,  imitation  bred  by  the  presence  of  his 
exemplary  goodness,  who  ceaseth  not  before  them  daily  to  fill 
heaven  and  earth  with  the  rich  treasures  of  most  free  and  unde- 
served grace. 

Of  angels  we  are  not  to  consider  only  what  they  are  and  do 
in  regard  of  their  own  being,  but  that  also  which  concerneth 
them  as  they  are  linked  into  a  kind  of  corporation  amongst  them- 
selves, and  of  society  or  fellowship  with  men.  Consider  angels 
each  of  them  severally  in  himself,  and  their  law  is  that  which 
the  prophet  David  mentioneth,  <<  All  ye  his  angels  praise  him.*^ 
Consider  the  angels  of  God  associated,  and  their  law  is  that  which 
disposeth  them  as  an  army,  one  in  order  and  degree  above  an- 
other. Consider  finally  the  angels  as  having  with  us  that  com- 
munion which  the  Apostle  to  the  Hebrews  noteth,  and  in  regard 
whereof  angels  have  not  disdained  to  profess  themselves  our 
«  fellow- servants  ^' ;  from  hence  there  springeth  up  a  third  law, 
which  bindeth  them  to  works  of  ministerial  employment.  Every 
one  of  which,  their  several  functions,  are  by  them  performed 
with  joy. 

A  part  of  the  angels  of  God,  notwithstanding  (we  know),  have 
fallen,  and  that  their  fall  hath  been  through  the  voluntary  breach 


RICHARD  HOOKER  2 231 

of  that  law,  which  did  require  at  their  hands  continuance  in  the 
exercise  of  their  high  and  admirable  virtue.  Impossible  it  was 
that  ever  their  will  should  change  or  incline  to  remit  any  part 
of  their  duty,  without  some  object  having  force  to  avert  their 
conceit  from  God,  and  to  draw  it  another  way;  and  that  they  at- 
tained that  high  perfection  of  bliss,  wherein  now  the  elect  angels 
are  without  possibility  of  falling.  Of  anything  more  than  of 
God  they  could  not  by  any  means  like,  as  long  as  whatsoever 
they  knew  besides  God  they  apprehended  it  not  in  itself  without 
dependency  upon  God;  because  so  long  God  must  needs  seem 
infinitely  better  than  anything  which  they  could  so  apprehend. 
Things  beneath  them  could  not  in  such  sort  be  presented  unto 
their  eyes,  but  that  therein  they  must  needs  see  always  how  those 
things  did  depend  on  God.  It  seemeth,  therefore,  that  there  was 
no  other  way  for  angels  to  sin,  but  by  reflex  of  their  under- 
standing upon  themselves;  when  being  held  with  admiration  of 
their  own  sublimity  and  honor,  the  memory  of  their  subordina- 
tion unto  God  and  their  dependency  on  him  was  drowned  in  this 
conceit;  whereupon  their  adoration,  love,  and  imitation  of  God 
could  not  choose  but  be  also  interrupted.  The  fall  of  angels 
therefore  was  pride.  Since  their  fall  their  practices  have  been 
the  clean  contrary  unto  those  before  mentioned.  For  being  dis- 
persed, some  in  the  air,  some  on  the  earth,  some  in  the  water,  some 
among  the  minerals,  dens,  and  caves,  that  are  under  the  earth; 
they  have  by  all  means  labored  to  effect  a  universal  rebellion 
against  the  laws,  and  as  far  as  in  them  lieth  utter  destruction  of 
the  works  of  God.  These  wicked  spirits  the  heathen  honored  in- 
stead of  gods,  both  generally  under  the  name  of  dii  infcri,  ^^  gods 
infernal,''  and  particularly  some  in  oracles,  some  in  idols,  some 
as  household  gods,  some  as  nymphs;  in  a  word,  no  foul  and 
wicked  spirit  which  was  not  one  way  or  other  honored  of  men  as 
God,  till  such  time  as  light  appeared  in  the  world  and  dissolved 
the  works  of  the  Devil.  Thus  much,  therefore,  may  suffice  for 
angels,  the  next  unto  whom  in  degree  are  men. 

«Of  the  Laws  of  Ecclesiastical  Polity," 
Book  I.,  Chap.  iv.     Complete. 


2232  RICHARD   HOOKER 

EDUCATION  AS  A  DEVELOPMENT  OF  THE  SOUL 

IN  THE  matter  of  knowledge,  there  is  between  the  angels  of  God 
and  the  children  of  men  this  difference;  angels  already  have 
full  and  complete  knowledge  in  the  highest  degree  that  can 
be  imparted  unto  them;  men,  if.  we  view  them  in  their  spring, 
are  at  the  first  without  understanding  or  knowledge  at  all.  Never- 
theless from  this  utter  vacuity  they  grow  by  degrees,  till  they  come 
at  length  to  be  even  as  the  angels  themselves  are.  That  which 
agreeth  to  the  one  now,  the  other  shall  attain  unto  in  the  end; 
they  are  not  so  far  disjoined  and  severed  but  that  they  come  at 
length  to  meet.  The  soul  of  man  being  therefore  at  the  first  as 
a  book,  wherein  nothing  is  and  yet  all  things  may  be  imprinted, 
we  are  to  search  by  what  steps  and  degrees  it  riseth  unto  perfec- 
tion of  knowledge. 

Unto  that  which  hath  been  already  set  down  concerning  nat- 
ural agents  this  we  must  add,  that  albeit  therein  we  have  com- 
prised as  well  creatures  living  as  void  of  life,  if  they  be  in  degree 
of  nature  beneath  men,  nevertheless  a  difference  we  must  observe 
between  those  natural  agents  that  work  altogether  unwittingly, 
and  those  which  have,  though  weak,  yet  some  understanding  what 
they  do,  as  fishes,  fowls,  and  beasts  have.  Beasts  are  in  sensible 
capacity  as  ripe  even  as  men  themselves,  perhaps  more  ripe.  For 
as  stones,  though  in  dignity  of  nature  inferior  unto  plants,  yet 
exceed  them  in  firmness  of  strength  or  durability  of  being;  and 
plants,  though  beneath  the  excellency  of  creatures  endued  with 
sense,  yet  exceed  them  in  the  faculty  of  vegetation  and  of  fertil- 
ity; so  beasts,  though  otherwise  behind  men,  may,  notwithstanding, 
in  actions  of  sense  and  fancy  go  beyond  them;  because  the  en- 
deavors of  nature,  when  it  hath  a  higher  perfection  to  seek,  are 
in  lower  the  more  remiss,  not  esteeming  thereof  so  much  as  those 
things  do,  which  have  no  better  proposed  unto  them. 

The  soul  of  man,  therefore,  being  capable  of  a  more  divine 
perfection,  hath  (besides  the  faculties  of  growing  unto  sensible 
knowledge  which  is  common  unto  us  with  beasts)  a  further  ability, 
whereof  in  them  there  is  no  show  at  all,  the  ability  of  reaching 
higher  than  unto  sensible  things.  Till  we  grow  to  some  ripeness 
of  years,  the  soul  of  man  doth  only  store  itself  with  conceits  of 
things  of  inferior  and  more  open  quality,  which  afterwards  do 
serve  as  instruments  unto  that  which  is  greater;  in  the  meanwhile 
above  the  reach  of  meaner  creatures  it  ascendeth  not.     When  once 


RICHARD   HOOKER  2233 

it  comprehendeth  anything  above  this,  as  the  differences  of  time, 
affirmations,  negations,  and  contradictions  in  speech,  we  then  count 
it  to  have  some  use  of  natural  reason.  Whereunto  if  afterwards 
there  might  be  added  the  right  helps  of  true  art  and  learning 
(which  helps,  I  must  plainly  confess,  this  age  of  the  world,  carry- 
ing the  name  of  a  learned  age,  doth  neither  much  know  nor 
greatly  regard),  there  would,  undoubtedly,  be  almost  as  great  dif- 
ference in  maturity  of  judgment  between  men  therewith  inured, 
and  that  which  now  men  are,  as  between  men  that  are  now  and 
innocents.  Which  speech  if  any  condemn,  as  being  over  hyper- 
bolical, let  them  consider  but  this  one  thing:  no  art  is  at  the 
first  finding  out  so  perfect  as  industry  may  after  make  it;  yet 
the  very  first  man  that  to  any  purpose  knew  the  way  we  speak 
of  and  followed  it  hath  alone  thereby  performed  more  very  near 
in  all  parts  of  natural  knowledge  than  sithence  in  any  one  part 
thereof   the  whole  world  besides  hath  done. 

In  the  poverty  of  that  other  new  devised  aid,  two  things  there 
are  notwithstanding  singular.  Of  marvelous  quick  dispatch  it  is, 
and  doth  show  them  that  have  it  as  much  almost  in  three  days 
as  if  it  dwell  threescore  years  with  them.  Again,  because  the 
curiosity  of  man's  wit  doth  many  times  with  peril  wade  further 
in  the  search  of  things  than  were  convenient,  the  same  is  thereby 
restrained  into  such  generalities  as  everywhere  offering  them- 
selves are  apparent  unto  men  of  the  weakest  conceit  what  need 
be.  So  as  following  the  rules  and  precepts  thereof,  we  may  de- 
fine it  to  be  an  art  which  teacheth  the  way  of  speedy  discourse, 
and  restraineth  the  mind  of  man  that  it  may  not  wax  otherwise. 

Education  and  instruction  are  the  means,  the  one  by  use,  the 
other  by  precept,  to  make  our  natural  faculty  of  reason  both  the 
better  and  the  sooner  able  to  judge  rightly  between  truth  and  error, 
good  and  evil.  But  at  what  time  a  man  may  be  said  to  have 
attained  so  far  forth  the  use  of  reason,  as  sufficeth  to  make  him 
capable  of  those  laws,  whereby  he  is  then  bound  to  guide  his 
actions,  this  is  a  great  deal  more  easy  for  common  sense  to  dis- 
cern than  for  any  man  by  skill  and  learning  to  determine;  even 
as  it  is  not  in  philosophers,  who  best  know  the  nature  both  of 
fire  and  of  gold,  to  teach  what  degree  of  the  one  will  serve  to 
purify  the  other,  so  well  as  the  artisan  who  doth  this  by  fire  dis- 
cerneth    by   sense  when   the   fire  hath   that  degree  of  heat   which 

sufficeth  for  his  purpose. 

«Of  the  Laws  of  Ecclesiastical  Polity," 

Book  I.,  Chap.  vi.     Complete. 


2234 


JOHN   HUGHES 

(1677-1720) 

SoHN  Hughes,  a  frequent  contributor  to  the  Spectator,  Tatler, 
and  Guardian,  was  born  in  Wiltshire,  England,  January  29th, 
1677.  He  wrote  much  both  in  prose  and  verse,  and  was  so 
well  thought  of  that  he  had  Johnson  for  a  biographer.  In  later  times, 
however,  he  has  been  forgotten  even  by  the  makers  of  encyclopaedias, 
justifying  the  opinions  of  Swift  and  Pope  in  his  own  day.  His  «  Poems 
on  Several  Occasions,  with  Select  Essays  in  Prose  »  appeared  in  1735. 
The  book  is  long  out  of  print,  but  as  a  pupil  of  Addison  and  a  contribu- 
tor to  the  Spectator,  Hughes  cannot  be  overlooked  by  students  of  the 
literature  of  Queen  Anne's  reign.  He  wrote  a  number  of  plays  which 
did  not  succeed,  and  when  on  February  17th,  1720,  his  «  Siege  of  Da- 
mascus »  was  being  warmly  applauded  at  Drury  Lane  Theatre,  where 
it  had  «made  a  hit,>'  he  was  dying.  «  What  he  wanted  in  genius  he 
made  up  as  an  honest  man,»  Pope  said  of  him. 


THE   WONDERFUL    NATURE   OF   EXCELLENT  MINDS 
■  Tentanda  via  est,  qud  me  quoque  possim 


Tollere  hutno,  victorque  virutn  volitare  per  ora. 

—  Virg.  Georg.,  IIL  9. 

New  ways  I  must  attempt,  my  groveling  name 
To  raise  aloft,  and  wing  my  flight  to  fame. 

—  Dry  den. 

I'  T  IS  a  remark,  made,  as  I  remember,  by  a  celebrated  French 
author,  that  no  man  ever  pushed  his  capacity  as  far  as  it  was 
able  to  extend.  I  shall  not  inquire  whether  this  assertion  be 
strictly  true.  It  may  suffice  to  say  that  men  of  the  greatest 
application  and  acquirements  can  look  back  upon  many  vacant 
spaces,  and  neglected  parts  of  time,  which  have  slipped  away 
from  them  unemployed;  and  there  is  hardly  any  one  considering 
person  in  the  world  but  is  apt  to  fancy  with  himself,  at  some 
time  or  other,  that  if  his  life  were  to  begin  again  he  could  fill  it 
up  better. 


JOHN  HUGHES  2235 

The  mind  is  most  provoked  to  cast  on  itself  this  ingenuous 
reproach,  when  the  examples  of  such  men  are  presented  to  it  as 
have  far  outshot  the  generality  of  their  species  in  learning,  arts, 
or  any  valuable  improvements. 

One  of  the  most  extensive  and  improved  geniuses  we  have 
had  any  instance  of  in  our  own  nation,  or  in  any  other,  was 
that  of  Sir  Francis  Bacon,  Lord  Verulam.  This  great  man,  by 
an  extraordinary  force  of  nature,  compass  of  thought,  and  indefati- 
gable study,  had  amassed  to  himself  such  stores  of  knowledge  as 
we  cannot  look  upon  without  amazement.  His  capacity  seemed 
to  have  grasped  all  that  was  revealed  in  books  before  his  time; 
and,  not  satisfied  with  that,  he  began  to  strike  out  new  tracks  of 
science,  too  many  to  be  traveled  over  by  any  one  man  in  the 
compass  of  the  longest  life.  These,  therefore,  he  could  only  mark 
down,  like  imperfect  coastings  on  maps,  or  supposed  points  of  land, 
to  be  further  discovered  and  ascertained  by  the  industry  of  after 
ages,  who  should  proceed  upon  his  notices  or  conjectures. 

The  excellent  Mr.  Boyle  was  the  person  who  seems  to  have 
been  designed  by  nature  to  succeed  to  the  labors  and  inquiries  of 
that  extraordinary  genius  I  have  just  mentioned.  By  innumera- 
ble experiments,  he  in  a  great  measure  filled  up  those  plans  and 
outlines  of  science  which  his  predecessor  had  sketched  out.  His 
life  was  spent  in  the  pursuit  of  nature  through  a  great  variety 
of  forms  and  changes,  and  in  the  most  rational  as  well  as  devout 
adoration  of  its  Divine  Author. 

It  would  be  impossible  to  name  many  persons  who  have  ex- 
tended their  capacities  so  far  as  these  two,  in  the  studies  they 
pursued;  but  my  learned  readers  on  this  occasion  will  naturally 
turn  their  thoughts  to  a  third,  who  is  yet  living,  and  is  likewise 
the  glory  of  our  own  nation.  The  improvements  which  others 
had  made  in  natural  and  mathematical  knowledge  have  so  vastly 
increased  in  his  hands  as  to  afford  at  once  a  wonderful  instance 
how  great  the  capacity  is  of  a  human  soul,  and  inexhaustible  the 
subject  of  its  inquiries;  so  true  is  that  remark  in  Holy  Writ  that 
« though  a  wise  man  seek  to  find  out  the  works  of  God  from  the 
beginning  to  the  end,  yet  shall  he  not  be  able  to  do  it.*' 

I  cannot  help  mentioning  here  one  character  more  of  a  differ- 
ent  kind,  indeed,  from   these,  yet   such   an   one   as   may  serve   to 
,  show  the  wonderful  force  of  nature  and  of  application,  and  is  the 
most  singular  instance  of   an    universal    genius    I    have    ever   met 
with.     The  person  I  mean  is  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  an  Italian  painter. 


2236  JOHN  HUGHES 

descended  from  a  noble  family  in  Tuscany,  about  the  beginning 

of  the  sixteenth  century.  In  his  profession  of  history  painting  he 
was  so  great  a  master,  that  some  have  affirmed  he  excelled  all 
who  went  before  him.  It  is  certain  that  he  raised  the  envy  of 
Michael  Angelo,  who  was  his  contemporary,  and  that  from  the 
study  of  his  works  Raphael  himself  learned  his  best  manner  of 
designing.  He  was  a  master,  too,  in  sculpture  and  architecture, 
and  skillful  in  anatomy,  mathematics,  and  mechanics.  The  aque- 
duct from  the  river  Adda  to  Milan  is  mentioned  as  a  work  of  his 
contrivance.  He  had  learned  several  languages,  and  was  ac- 
quainted with  the  studies  of  history,  philosophy,  poetry,  and  music. 
Though  it  is  not  necessary  to  my  present  purpose,  I  cannot  but 
take  notice  that  all  who  have  writ  of  him  mention  likewise  his 
perfection  of  body.  The  instances  of  his  strength  are  almost  in- 
credible. He  is  described  to  have  been  of  a  well-formed  person, 
and  a  master  of  all  genteel  exercises.  And,  lastly,  we  are  told 
that  his  moral  qualities  were  agreeable  to  his  natural  and  intel- 
lectual endowments,  and  that  he  was  of  an  honest  and  generous 
mind,  adorned  with  great  sweetness  of  manners.  I  might  break 
off  the  account  of  him  here,  but  I  imagine  it  will  be  an  enter- 
tainment to  the  curiosity  of  my  readers,  to  find  so  remarkable  a 
character  distinguished  by  as  remarkable  a  circumstance  at  his 
death.  The  fame  of  his  works  having  gained  him  an  universal 
esteem,  he  was  invited  to  the  court  of  France,  where,  after  some 
time,  he  fell  sick;  and  Francis  I.  coming  to  see  him,  he  raised 
himself  in  his  bed  to  acknowledge  the  honor  which  was  done  him 
by  that  visit.  The  king  embraced  him,  and  Leonardo,  fainting 
in  the  same  moment,  expired  in  the  arms  of  that  great  monarch. 

It  is  impossible  to  attend  to  such  instances  as  these  without 
being  raised  into  a  contemplation  on  the  wonderful  nature  of  a 
human  mind,  which  is  capable  of  such  progressions  in  knowledge, 
and  can  contain  such  a  variety  of  ideas  without  perplexity  or  con- 
fusion. How  reasonable  is  it  from  hence  to  infer  its  divine  orig- 
inal! And  whilst  we  find  unthinking  matter  endued  with  a  natural 
power  to  last  forever,  unless  annihilated  by  Omnipotence,  how  ab- 
surd would  it  be  to  imagine  that  a  being  so  much  superior  to  it 
should  not  have  the  same  privilege! 

At  the  same  time  it  is  ven'-  surprising  when  we  remove  our 
thoughts  from  such  instances  as  I  have  mentioned,  to  consider 
those  we  so  frequently  meet  with  in  the  accounts  of  barbarous 
nations  among  the  Indians;  where  we  find  numbers  of  people  who 


JOHN  HUGHES  2337 

scarce  show  the  first  glimmerings  of  reason,  and  seem  to  have 
few  ideas  above  those  of  sense  and  appetite.  These,  methinks, 
appear  like  large  wilds,  or  vast  uncultivated  tracts  of  human  na- 
ture; and  when  we  compare  them  with  men  of  the  most  exalted 
characters  in  arts  and  learning,  we  find  it  difficult  to  believe  that 
they  are  creatures  of  the  same  species. 

Some  are  of  opinion  that  the  souls  of  men  are  all  naturally- 
equal,  and  that  the  great  disparity  we  so  often  observe  arises 
from  the  different  organization  or  structure  of  the  bodies  to  which 
they  are  united.  But  whatever  constitutes  this  first  disparity,  the 
next  great  difference  which  we  find  between  men  in  their  several 
acquirements  is  owing  to  accidental  differences  in  their  education, 
fortunes,  or  course  of  life.  The  soul  is  a  kind  of  rough  diamond, 
which  requires  art,  labor,  and  time  to  polish  it.  For  want  of 
which  many  a  good  natural-genius  is  lost,  or  lies  unfashioned,  like 
a  jewel  in  the  mine. 

One  of  the  strongest  incitements  to  excel  in  such  arts  and  ac- 
complishments as  are  in  the  highest  esteem  among  men  is  the 
natural  passion  which  the  mind  of  man  has  for  glory;  which, 
though  it  may  be  faulty  in  the  excess  of  it,  ought  by  no  means 
to  be  discouraged.  Perhaps  some  moralists  are  too  severe  in 
beating  down  this  principle,  which  seems  to  be  a  spring  implanted 
by  nature  to  give  motion  to  all  the  latent  powers  of  the  soul, 
and  is  always  observed  to  exert  itself  with  the  greatest  force  in 
the  most  generous  dispositions.  The  men  whose  characters  have 
shone  the  brightest  among  the  ancient  Romans  appear  to  have 
been  strongly  animated  by  this  passion.  Cicero,  whose  learning 
and  services  to  his  country  arc  so  well  known,  was  inflamed  by 
it  to  an  extravagant  degree,  and  warmly  presses  Lucceius,  who 
was  composing  a  history  of  those  times,  to  be  very  particular 
and  zealous  in  relating  the  story  of  his  consulship;  and  to  exe- 
cute it  speedily,  that  he  might  have  the  pleasure  of  enjoying  in 
his  lifetime  some  part  of  the  honor  which  he  foresaw  would  be 
paid  to  his  memory.  This  was  the  ambition  of  a  great  mind; 
but  he  is  faulty  in  the  degree  of  it,  and  cannot  refrain  from 
soliciting  the  historian  upon  this  occasion  to  neglect  the  strict 
laws  of  history,  and,  in  praising  him,  even  to  exceed  the  bounds 
of  truth.  The  younger  Pliny  appears  to  have  had  the  same  pas- 
sion for  fame,  but  accompanied  with  greater  chastcncss  and  mod- 
esty. His  ingenious  manner  of  owning  it  to  a  friend,  who  had 
prompted  him  to  undertake  some  great  work,  is  exquisitely  beau- 


2238  JOHN  HUGHES 

tiful,  and  raises  him  to  a  certain  gfrandeur  above  the  imputation 
of  vanity.  **  I  must  confess,  *  says  he,  <'  that  nothing  employs  my 
thoughts  more  than  the  desire  I  have  of  perpetuating  my  name; 
which  in  my  opinion  is  a  design  worthy  of  a  man,  at  least  of 
such  an  one,  who,  being  conscious  of  no  guilt,  is  not  afraid  to  be 
remembered  by  posterity. '^ 

I  think  I  ought  not  to  conclude  without  interesting  all  my  read- 
ers in  the  subject  of  this  discourse:  I  shall  therefore  lay  it  down 
as  a  maxim,  that  though  all  are  not  capable  of  shining  in  learn- 
ing or  the  politer  arts,  yet  every  one  is  capable  of  excelling  in 
something.  The  soul  has  in  this  respect  a  certain  vegetative 
power  which  cannot  lie  wholly  idle.  If  it  is  not  laid  out  and 
cultivated  into  a  regular  and  beautiful  garden,  it  will  of  itself 
shoot  up  in  weeds  or  flowers  of  a  wilder  growth. 

Complete.     Number  554  of  the 
Spectator. 


2239 


VICTOR   HUGO 

(1802-1885) 

jiCTOR  Marie  Hugo  was  born  at  Besangon,  France,  February 
26th,  1802.  He  died  at  Paris,  May  22d,  1885,  and  into  his 
eighty-three  years  he  crowded  so  much  of  emotion  and  ef- 
fort that  the  temptation  to  call  him  the  most  representative  product 
of  the  nineteenth  century  is  hard  to  resist.  He  was  certainly  the 
greatest  Frenchman  of  the  century.  France  has  produced  no  greater 
poet  in  any  age.  As  a  political  orator  he  was  surpassed  among 
Frenchmen  only  by  Mirabeau,— if,  indeed,  it  be  true  that  Mirabeau 
himself  surpassed  him.  As  a  dramatist,  he  ranks  with  Voltaire,  and 
there  is  good  ground  for  the  claim  of  his  admirers  that  his  « Les 
Miserables^^  is  the  "greatest  novel  ever  written.*  As  an  essayist,  he 
works  chiefly  through  his  novels.  The  greatness  of  idea  which  makes 
«  Les  Miserables  »  what  it  is  is  not  developed  wholly  through  the  plot, 
but  to  a  degree  through  essays  with  which  it  is  interspersed.  In 
some  English  translations  these  essays  are  nearly  all  omitted,  without 
seeming  to  affect  the  value  of  the  story.  But  Hugo  wished  to  make 
the  book  something  more  than  a  mere  story.  To  him  it  is  an  ex- 
pression of  the  great  tragedy  of  human  life  and,  to  develop  it,  he 
uses  the  art  not  merely  of  the  novelist,  but  of  the  epic  poet,  the  ora- 
tor,  and  the  philosopher. 

The  essays  of  his  «  Choses  Vues  »  take  a  wholly  different  form.  They 
are  graphic  sketches  in  which  he  projects  his  ideas  as  objectively  as 
if  they  were  thrown  on  a  screen  by  a  magic  lantern.  The  natural 
mode  of  expression  always  pleased  him  best.  Like  all  great  artists, 
he  was  repelled  by  the  merely  abstract.  To  him  abstraction  seemed 
to  lead,  not  towards  truth,  but  away  from  it.  To  escape  negation  ho 
sought  to  reveal  truth  as  it  is  revealed  in  nature,— in  an  infinite  di- 
versity of  object  lessons,  each  harmonized  with  the  rest  by  a  subtle 
law  of  all-pervading  unity.  He  was  vain  and  often  theatrical,  but 
he  loved  what  was  noble  and  hated  what  was  base  so  deeply  that 
when  examples  of  heroic  courage  as  a  manifestation  of  the  intellec- 
tual life  are  sought  for.  his  name  will  not  be  forgotten  while  that  of 

Alcaeus  is  remembered. 

W.  V.  B. 


2240 


VICTOR  HUGO 


THE  END  OF  TALLEYRAND'S   BRAIN 


IN  THE  Rue  Saint- Florentin  there  are  a  palace  and  a  sewer. 
The  palace,  which  is  of  a  rich,  handsome,  and  gloomy  style 

of  architecture,  was  long  called  Hotel  de  I'lnfantado;  nowadays 
may  be  seen  on  the  frontal  of  its-  principal  doorway  Hotel  Tal- 
leyrand. During  the  forty  years  that  he  resided  in  this  street, 
the  last  tenant  of  this  palace  never,  perhaps,  cast  his  eyes  upon 
this  sewer. 

He  was  a  strange,  redoubtable,  and  important  personage;  his 
name  was  Charles  Maurice  de  Perigord;  he  was  of  noble  descent 
like  Machiavelli,  a  priest  like  Gondi,  unfrocked  like  Fouch^,  witty 
like  Voltaire,  and  lame  like  the  devil.  It  might  be  averred  that 
everything  in  him  was  lame  like  himself;  the  nobility  which  he 
had  placed  at  the  service  of  the  Republic,  the  priesthood  which 
he  had  dragged  through  the  parade  ground,  then  cast  into  the 
gutter,  the  marriage  which  he  had  broken  off  through  a  score  of 
exposures  and  a  voluntary  separation,  the  understanding  which  he 
disgraced  by  acts  of  baseness. 

This  man,  nevertheless,  had  grandeur;  the  splendors  of  the 
two  regimes  were  united  in  him;  he  was  Prince  de  Vaux  in  the 
kingdom  of  France,  and  a  Prince  of  the  French  Empire.  Dur- 
ing thirty  years,  from  the  interior  of  his  palace,  from  the  interior 
of  his  thoughts,  he  had  almost  controlled  Europe.  He  had  permit- 
ted himself  to  be  on  terms  of  familiarity  with  the  Revolution, 
and  had  smiled  upon  it;  ironically,  it  is  true,  but  the  Revolution 
had  not  perceived  this.  He  had  come  in  contact  with,  known, 
observed,  penetrated,  influenced,  set  in  motion,  fathomed,  ban- 
,tered,  inspired  all  the  men  of  his  time,  all  the  ideas  of  his  time, 
and  there  had  been  moments  in  his  life  when,  holding  in  his 
hand  the  four  or  five  great  threads  which  moved  the  civilized 
universe,  he  had  for  his  puppet  Napoleon  I.,  Emperor  of  the 
French,  King  of  Italy,  Protector  of  the  Confederation  of  the 
Rhine,  Mediator  of  the  Swiss  Confederation.  That  is  the  game 
which  was  played   by  this  man. 

After  the  Revolution  of  July,  the  old  race,  of  which  he  was 
the  high  chamberlain,  having  fallen,  he  found  himself  once  more 
on  his  feet,  and  said  to  the  people  of  1830,  seated  bare- armed 
upon  a  heap  of  paving  stones,   ^^  Make  me  your  embassador !  *^ 

He  received  the  confession  of  Mirabeau  and  the  first  confi- 
dence of   Thiers.      He  said  of  himself  that  he  was  a  great  poet. 


VICTOR  HUGO  2241 

and  that  he  had  composed  a  trilogy  in  three  dynasties:  Act  I., 
the  Empire  of  Bonaparte;  Act  II.,  the  House  of  Bourbon;  Act 
III.,  the  House  of  Orleans. 

He  did  all  this  in  his  palace,  and  in  this  palace,  like  a  spider 
in  his  web,  he  allured  and  caught  in  succession,  heroes,  thinkers, 
great  men,  conquerors,  kings,  princes,  emperors,  Bonaparte,  Si- 
tyha,  Madame  de  Stael,  Chateaubriand,  Benjamin  Constant,  Alex- 
ander of  Russia,  William  of  Prussia,  Francis  of  Austria,  Louis 
XVIII.,  Louis  Philippe,  all  the  gilded  and  glittering  flies  who 
buzz  through  the  history  of  the  last  forty  years.  All  this  glisten- 
ing throng,  fascinated  by  the  penetrating  eye  of  this  man,  passed 
in  turn  under  that  gloomy  entrance  bearing  upon  the  architrave 
the  inscription  Hotel  Talleyrand. 

Well,  the  day  before  yesterday.  May  17th,  1838,  this  man  died. 
Doctors  came  and  embalmed  the  body.  To  do  this  they,  like  the 
Egyptians,  removed  the  bowels  from  the  stomach  and  the  brain 
from  the  skull.  The  work  done,  after  having  transformed  the 
Prince  de  Talleyrand  into  a  mummy,  and  nailed  down  this  mummy 
in  a  coffin,  lined  with  white  satin,  they  retired  leaving  upon  a 
table  the  brain  —  that  brain  which  had  thought  so  many  things, 
inspired  so  many  men,  erected  so  many  buildings,  led  two  revq 
lutions,  duped  twenty  kings,  held  the  world.  The  doctors  being 
gone,  a  servant  entered;  he  saw  what  they  had  left;  Hulloa! 
they  have  forgotten  this.  What  was  to  be  done  with  it  ?  It  oc- 
curred to  him  that  there  was  a  sewer  in  the  street;  he  went 
there,  and  threw  the  brain  into  the  sewer. 

Complete.     From  « Things  Seen.» 


THE   DEATH   OF    BALZAC 

ON  THE  eighteenth  of  August,    1850,  my  wife,   who   had   been 
during  the  day  to  see   Mme.   de   Balzac,   told   me  that   Bal- 
zac was  dying.      I  hurried  to  him. 
M.   de    Balzac    had    been    suffering   for   eighteen    months   from 
hypertrophy  of   the   heart.     After   the   revolution   of  February  he 
went  to   Russia,  and  there  married.     Some  days  before  his  depar- 
ture I  met  him  in  the  boulevard.     He  was  then  complaining,  and 
breathing  noisily.     In   May,  1850,  he  returned  to  France,  married, 
rich,  and  dying!     When  he  arrived  his  legs  were  already  swollen. 
Four  doctors  held  a  consultation.     One  of  them,   M.   Louis,  told 
VI — 141 


2242  VICTOR   HUGO 

me  on  the  sixth  of   July,   "  He  has  not  six  weeks  to  live.  *^     It  is 
the  same  disease  that  killed  Frederic  Soulie. 

On  August  1 8th  my  uncle,  General  Louis  Hugo,  was  dining 
with  me.  As  soon  as  the  table  was  cleared  I  left,  and  took  a 
cab  to  the  Avenue  Fortunee  (No.  14),  in  the  Quartier  Beaujon, 
where  M.  de  Balzac  lived.  He  had  purchased  what  remained  of 
the  mansion  of  M.  de  Beaujon,  some  portion  having  escaped  dem- 
olition. He  had  furnished  it  magnificently,  and  made  it  a  very 
pretty  little  house,  having  a  carriage  entrance  in  the  Avenue 
Fortunee,  and  for  garden  a  long  and  narrow  court,  in  which  the 
pavement  was  here  and  there  cut  into  flower  beds. 

I  rang.  The  moon  was  up,  but  obscured  by  clouds.  The 
street  was  deserted.  No  one  came.  I  rang  again.  The  door 
opened.  A  servant  appeared  with  a  candle.  **  What  do  you 
want,  sir  ?  '^  she  asked.     She  was  crying. 

I  told  her  my  name.  She  ushered  me  into  a  room  on  the 
ground  floor,  in  which,  on  a  console  opposite  the  chimney-piece, 
was  a  colossal  bust  of  Balzac  by  David.  A  wax  candle  was  burn- 
ing upon  a  splendid  table  in  the  centre  of  the  salon,  and  which 
had  for  feet  six  statuettes,    gilt  with  the  purest  gold. 

Another  woman,  who  was  also  crying,  came  and  said,  ^^  He  is 
dying.  Madame  has  gone  to  her  own  room.  The  doctors  have 
not  been  here  since  yesterday.  He  has  a  wound  in  the  left  leg. 
Gangrene  has  set  in.  The  doctors  do  not  know  what  to  do; 
they  say  that  dropsy  is  a  continuous  dropsy,  an  infiltration. 
That  is  what  they  call  it;  that  the  skin  and  the  flesh  are  like 
lard,  and  that  it  is  impossible  to  tap  him.  Last  month,  when 
going  to  bed,  master  ran  against  a  decorated  piece  of  furniture 
and  tore  the  skin  of  his  leg,  and  all  the  water  in  the  body  ran 
out.  The  doctors  were  much  astonished,  and  since  then  they 
have  made  puncturations.  They  said,  *  Imitate  nature. '  But  an 
abscess  of  the  limb  has  supervened.  M.  Roux  operated.  Yesterday 
they  removed  the  dressing;  the  wound,  instead  of  having  suppu- 
rated, was  red,  dry,  and  burning.  Then  they  said,  ^  He  is  lost,^ 
and  they  have  never  returned.  Four  or  five  have  been  sent  for 
in  vain.  Every  one  said,  *  It  is  no  use.  *  He  had  a  bad  night 
This  morning  at  nine  Monsieur  could  not  speak.  Madame  sent 
for  a  priest;  he  came,  and  has  given  Monsieur  extreme  unction. 
One  hour  after  he  shook  the  hand  of  his  sister,  Madame  de  Sur- 
ville.  Since  eleven  o'clock  the  rattle  has  been  in  his  throat,  and 
he  can  see  no  longer.     He  will  not  live   through    the    night.     If 


VICTOR  HUGO  2243 

you  wish,  sir,  I  will  go  and  look  for  M.  de  Surville,  who  has  not 
yet  retired.'^ 

The  woman  left  me.  I  waited  for  some  minutes.  The  can- 
dle scarcely  lighted  the  room,  its  splendid  furniture  and  fine  pic- 
tures by  Porbus  and  Holbein.  The  marble  bust  showed  vaguely 
in  the  gloom  like  the  spectre  of  the  man  who  was  dying.  A 
corpse-like  smell  pervaded  the  house. 

M.  de  Surville  entered  and  confirmed  all  that  the  servant 
had  said.     I  requested  to  see  M.  de  Balzac. 

We  proceeded  along  a  corridor,  ascended  a  staircase  covered 
with  red  carpet  and  laden  with  objects  of  art  —  vases,  statues, 
pictures,  credence  tables  —  and  then  another  corridor,  and  I  per- 
ceived an  open  door.  I  heard  a  loud  and  sinister  rattling  noise. 
I  was  in  the  death  chamber  of  Balzac. 

A  bed  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  a  mahogany  bedstead 
having  a  suspensory  arrangement  at  the  head  and  foot  for  the 
convenience  of  moving  the  invalid.  M.  de  Balzac  was  in  this 
bed,  his  head  supported  on  a  pile  of  pillows,  to  which  had  been 
added  the  red  damask  cushions  from  the  sofa.  His  face  was 
purple,  almost  black,  and  drawn  to  the  right  side;  his  beard  un- 
trimmed,  his  gray  hair  cut  short,  his  eyes  fixed  and  open.  I  saw 
him  in  profile,  and  thus  he  resembled  the  Emperor. 

An  old  woman, —  the  nurse, —  and  a  man  servant  stood  at  each 
side  of  the  bed;  a  candle  was  burning  behind  the  head  of  the 
bed  upon  a  table,  another  upon  the  drawers  near  the  door.  A 
silver  vase  was  placed  on  the  night  table.  This  man  and  this 
woman  stood  silent  in  fear,  and  listened  to  the  death  rattle  of 
the  invalid. 

The  candle  behind  the  bed  lighted  up  brightly  the  portrait 
of  a  young  man,  ruddy  and  smiling,  hanging  near  the  fireplace. 

An  insupportable  smell  issued  from  the  bed.  I  lifted  the 
counterpane  and  took  the  hand  of  Balzac.  It  was  clammy.  T 
pressed  it.      He  did  not  respond  to  the  pressure. 

This  was  the  same  room  in  which  I  had  come  to  see  him  a 
month  previously.  He  was  then  cheerful,  full  of  hope,  having  no 
doubt  of  his  recovery,  showing  his  swelled  limb,  and  laughing. 
Wc  had  a  long  conversation  and  a  political  dispute.  He  called 
me  his  demagogue.  He  was  a  Legitimist.  He  said  to  me, 
"  How  have  you  so  quietly  renounced  the  title  of  Peer  of  France, 
the  best  after  that  of  King  of  France?"  He  also  said:  "I  have 
the    house   of    M.   de    Beaujon   without    the    garden,  but  with    the 


2  244  VICTOR  HUGO 

seat  in  the  little  church  at  the  comer  of  the  street.  A  door  in 
my  staircase  opens  into  this  church,  one  turn  of  the  key  and  I 
can  hear  mass.  I  think  more  of  the  seat  than  of  the  garden.® 
When  I  was  about  to  leave  him  he  conducted  me  to  this  stair- 
case with  difficulty,  and  showed  me  the  door,  and  then  he  called 
out  to  his  wife,  *  Mind  you  show  Hugo  all  my  pictures.  * 

The  nurse  said  to  me,  "He  will  die  at  daybreak.* 

I  came  down  stairs  again,  bearing  in  mind  the  livid  face. 
Crossing  the  dining  room,  I  found  the  bust  immovable,  impassi- 
ble, haughty,  vaguely  radiant,  and  I  compared  death  with  immor- 
tality. 

When  I  reached  home  it  was  Sunday.  I  found  many  people 
awaiting  me,  among  others  Riza-Bey,  the  Turkish  Charg6  d' Af- 
faires; Navarette,  the  Spanish  poet;  and  the  Count  Arrivabene,  the 
exiled  Italian.  I  said  to  them,  "  Gentlemen,  Europe  is  on  the 
point  of  losing  a  great    soul. '^ 

He  died  in  the  night.     He  was  fifty-one  years  old. 

They  buried  him  on  Wednesday. 

He  lay  first  in  the  Beaujon  Chapel,  and  he  was  carried  thither 
by  the  door,  the  key  of  which  was  more  precious  to  him  than  all 
the  beautiful  gardens  of  the  former  "  Fermier  General.* 

Giraud  took  his  portrait  on  the  very  day  of  his  death.  They 
wished  to  mold  his  mask,  but  could  not;  decomposition  was  too 
rapid.  The  day  after  his  death,  in  the  morning,  the  modelers 
who  came  found  his  face  deformed  and  the  nose  fallen  upon  the 
cheek.     They  put  him  in  an  oak  and  lead  coffin. 

The  service  was  performed  at  Saint- Philippe  du  Roule.  As  I 
stood  by  the  coffin  I  remembered  that  there  my  second  daughter 
had  been  baptized,  and  I  had  not  been  in  the  church  since.  In 
our  memories  death  touches  birth. 

The  Minister  of  the  Interior,  Baroche,  came  to  the  funeral. 
He  was  seated  by  me  in  church,  near  the  bier,  and  from  time  to 
time  he  spoke  to  me.  He  said,  **  He  was  a  distinguished  man." 
I  replied,    "He  was  a  genius.* 

The  procession  traversed  Paris  and  went  by  way  of  the  boule- 
vard to  P^re  La  Chaise.  A  few  drops  of  rain  fell  when  we  were 
leaving  the  church  and  when  we  reached  the  cemetery.  It  was  one 
of  those  days  on  which  it  seems  that  the  heavens  must  shed  tears. 

We  walked  all  the  way.  I  proceeded  in  front  of  the  coffin, 
holding  one  of  the  silver  tassels  of  the  pall;  Alexander  Dumas 
was  on  the  other  side. 


VICTOR  HUGO  2245 

When  we  came  to  the  grave,  which  was  some  distance  up  the 
hill,  we  found  an  immense  crowd.  The  road  was  rough  and  nar- 
row; the  horses  had  some  difficulty  in  pulling  the  hearse,  which 
rolled  back  again.  I  found  myself  imprisoned  between  a  wheel 
and  a  tomb,  and  was  very  nearly  crushed.  The  spectators  who 
were  standing  on  the  tomb  helped  me  up. 

The  coffin  was  lowered  into  the  grave,  which  is  close  to  those 
of  Charles  Nodier  and  of  Casimir  Delavigne.  The  priest  said 
the  last  prayer,  and  I  spoke  a  few  words.  As  I  was  speaking 
the  sun  set.  All  Paris  appeared  in  the  distance  enveloped  in  the 
splendid  haze  of  the  setting  orb.  The  earth  began  to  fall  into 
the  grave  almost  at  my  feet,  and  I  was  interrupted  by  the  dull 
sound  of  the  clods  dropping  on  the  coffin. 

Complete.     From  « Things  Seen." 


A   RETROSPECT 

IHAVE  had  for  friends  and  allies,  I  have  seen  successively  pass 
before  me,  and  according  to  the  changes  and  chances  of  des- 
tiny, I  have  received  into  my  house,  sometimes  in  intimacy, 
chancellors,  peers,  dukes,  Pasquier,  Pont^coulant,  Montalembert, 
Bellune;  and  celebrated  men,  Lamennais,  Lamartine,  Chateau- 
briand; Presidents  of  the  Republic,  Manin;  leaders  of  revolution, 
Louis  Blanc,  Montanelli,  Arago,  Heliade;  leaders  of  the  people, 
Garibaldi,  Mazzini,  Kossuth,  Mieroslawski;  artists,  Rossini,  David 
d' Angers,  Pradier,  Meyerbeer,  Eugene  Delacroix;  marshals,  Soult, 
Mackau;  sergeants,  Boni,  Heurtebise;  bishops,  the  Cardinal  of 
Besangon,  M.  de  Rohan,  the  Cardinal  of  Bordeaux,  M.  Donnct; 
and  comedians,  Frdd^ric  Lemaitre,  Mile.  Rachel,  Mile.  Mars, 
Mme.  Dorval,  Macready;  ministers  and  embassadors,  Mold,  Gui- 
zot,  Thiers,  Lord  Palmerston,  Lord  Normanby,  M.  de  Lignc; 
and  of  peasants,  Charles  Durand;  princes.  Imperial  and  Royal 
Highnesses  and  plain  Highnesses,  such  as  the  Duke  of  Orleans, 
Ernest  of  Saxe-Coburg,  the  Princess  of  Canino,  Louis  Charles 
Pierre,  and  Napoleon  Bonaparte;  and  of  shoemakers,  Guay;  of 
kings  and  emperors,  Jerome  of  Westphalia,  Max  of  Bavaria,  the 
Emperor  of  Brazil;  and  of  thorough  revolutionists,  Bourillon.  I 
have  had  sometimes  in  my  hands  the  gloved  and  white  palm  of 
the  upper  class  and  the  heavy  black  hand  of  the  lower  class,  and 
have  recognized    that   both  are   but    men.      After  all    these   have 


2246  VICTOR  HUGO 

passed  before  me,  I  say  that  Humanity  has  a  synonym  —  Equal- 
ity; and  that  under  heaven  there  is  but  one  thing  we  ought  to 
bow  to  —  Genius;  and  only  one  thing  before  which  we  ought  to 
kneel  —  Goodness. 

Complete.     From  « Things  Seen.» 


WATERLOO —  « QUOT   LIBRAS   IN   DUCE» 

THE  battle  of  Waterloo  is  an  enigma  as  obscure  for  those  who 
gained  it  as  for  him  who  lost  it.  To  Napoleon  it  is  a  panic ; 
Blucher  sees  nothing  in  it  but  fire;  Wellington  does  not 
understand  it  at  all.  Look  at  the  reports:  the  bulletins  are  con- 
fused; the  commentaries  are  entangled;  the  latter  stammer,  the 
former  stutter.  Jomini  divides  the  battle  of  Waterloo  into  four 
moments;  Muffling  cuts  it  into  three  acts;  Charras,  although  we 
do  not  entirely  agree  with  him  in  all  his  appreciations,  has  alone 
caught  with  his  haughty  eye  the  characteristic  lineaments  of  this 
catastrophe  of  human  genius  contending  with  divine  chance.  All 
the  other  historians  suffer  from  a  certain  bedazzlement  in  which 
they  grope  about.  It  was  a  flashing  day,  in  truth  the  overthrow 
of  the  military  monarchy  which,  to  the  great  stupor  of  the  kings, 
has  dragged  down  all  kingdoms,  the  downfall  of  strength  and  the 
rout  of  war. 

In  this  event,  which  bears  the  stamp  of  superhuman  necessity, 
men  play  but  a  small  part;  but  if  we  take  Waterloo  from  Well- 
ington and  Blucher,  does  that  deprive  England  and  Germany  of 
anything  ?  No.  Neither  illustrious  England  nor  august  Germany 
is  in  question  in  the  problem  of  Waterloo,  for,  thank  heaven !  na- 
tions are  great  without  the  mournful  achievements  of  the  sword. 
Neither  Germany,  nor  England,  nor  France  is  held  in  a  scabbard; 
at  this  day  when  Waterloo  is  only  a  clash  of  sabres,  Germany  has 
Goethe  above  Blucher,  and  England  Byron  above  Wellington.  A 
mighty  dawn  of  ideas  is  peculiar  to  our  age;  and  in  this  dawn 
England  and  Germany  have  their  own  magnificent  flash.  They  are 
majestic  because  they  think;  the  high  level  they  bring  to  civiliza- 
tion is  intrinsic  to  them ;  it  comes  from  themselves,  and  not  from 
an  accident.  Any  aggrandizement  the  nineteenth  century  may 
have  cannot  boast  of  Waterloo  as  its  fountain  head ;  for  only  bar- 
barous nations  grow  suddenly  after  a  victory  —  it  is  the  transient 
vanity  of   torrents    swollen   by  a   storm.     Civilized   nations,  espe- 


VICTOR  HUGO  2247 

dally  at  the  present  day,  are  not  elevated  or  debased  by  the  good 
or  evil  fortune  of  a  captain,  and  their  specific  weight  in  the  hu- 
man family  results  from  something  more  than  a  battle.  Their 
honor,  dignity,  enlightenment,  and  genius,  are  not  numbers  which 
those  gamblers,  heroes,  and  conquerors  can  stake  in  the  lottery 
of  battles.  Very  often  a  battle  lost  is  progress  gained,  and  less 
of  glory,  more  of  liberty.  The  drummer  is  silent  and  reason 
speaks;  it  is  the  game  of  who  loses  wins.  Let  us,  then,  speak  of 
Waterloo  coldly  from  both  sides,  and  render  to  chance  the  things 
that  belong  to  chance,  and  to  God  what  is  God's.  What  is  Wa- 
terloo—  a  victory  ?  No;  a  quine  in  the  lottery,  won  by  Europe, 
and  paid  by  France;  it  was  hardly  worth  while  erecting  a  lion 
for  it. 

Waterloo,  by  the  way,  is  the  strangest  encounter  recorded  in 
history;  Napoleon  and  Wellington  are  not  enemies,  but  contraries. 
Never  did  God,  who  delights  in  antitheses,  produce  a  more  strik- 
ing contrast,  or  a  more  extraordinary  confrontation.  On  one  side 
precision,  foresight,  geometry,  prudence,  a  retreat  assured,  reserves 
prepared,  an  obstinate  coolness,  an  imperturbable  method,  strategy 
profiting  by  the  ground,  tactics  balancing  battalions,  carnage  meas- 
ured by  a  plumb  line,  war  regulated  watch  in  hand,  nothing  left 
voluntarily  to  accident,  old  classic  courage  and  absolute  correct- 
ness. On  the  other  side  we  have  intuition,  divination,  military 
strangeness,  superhuman  instinct,  a  flashing  glance;  something 
that  gazes  like  the  eagle  and  strikes  like  lightning,  all  the  mys- 
teries of  a  profound  mind,  association  with  destiny;  the  river,  the 
plain,  the  forest,  and  the  hill  summoned,  and  to  some  extent, 
compelled  to  obey,  the  despot  going  so  far  as  even  to  tyrannize 
over  the  battlefield;  faith  in  a  star,  blended  with  strategic  sci- 
ence, heightening,  but  troubling  it.  Wellington  was  the  Bareme 
of  war.  Napoleon  was  its  Michael  Angelo,  and  this  true  genius 
was  conquered  by  calculation.  On  both  sides  somebody  was  ex- 
pected ;  and  it  was  the  exact  calculator  who  succeeded.  Napoleon 
waited  for  Grouchy,  who  did  not  come;  Wellington  waited  for 
Blucher,  and  he  came. 

Wellington  is  the  classical  war  taking  its  revenge;  Bonaparte, 
in  his  dawn,  had  met  it  in  Italy,  and  superbly  defeated  it  —  the 
old  owl  fled  before  the  young  vulture.  The  old  tactics  had  been 
not  only  overthrown,  but  scandalized.  Who  was  this  Corsican  of 
six  and  twenty  years  of  age  ?  What  meant  this  splendid  igno- 
ramus, who,  having  everything  against  him,  nothing  for  him,  with- 


2248  VICTOR  HUGO 

out  provisions,  ammunition,  guns,  shoes,  almost  without  an  army, 
with  a  handful  of  men  against  masses,  dashed  at  allied  Europe, 
and  absurdly  gained  impossible  victories  ?  Who  was  this  new 
comer  of  war  who  possessed  the  effrontery  of  a  planet  ?  The 
academic  military  school  excommunicated  him,  while  bolting,  and 
hence  arose  an  implacable  rancor  of  the  old  Caesarism  against  the 
new,  of  the  old  sabre  against  the  flashing  sword,  and  of  the  chess- 
board against  genius.  On  June  i8th,  18 15,  this  rancor  got  the 
best;  and  beneath  Lodi,  Montebello,  Montenotte,  Mantua,  Ma- 
rengo, and  Areola,  it  wrote  —  Waterloo.  It  was  a  triumph  of 
Mediocrity,  sweet  to  majorities,  and  destiny  consented  to  this 
irony.  In  his  decline.  Napoleon  found  a  young  Suvarov  before 
him, —  in  fact,  it  is  only  necessary  to  blanch  Wellington's  hair  in 
order  to  have  a  Suvarov.  Waterloo  is  a  battle  of  the  first  class, 
gained  by  a  captain  of  the  second. 

What  must  be  admired  in  the  battle  of  Waterloo  is  England, 
the  English  firmness,  the  English  resolution,  the  English  blood, 
and  what  England  had  really  superb  in  it,  is  (without  offense) 
herself;  it  is  not  her  captain,  but  her  army.  Wellington,  strangely 
ungrateful,  declares  in  his  dispatch  to  Lord  Bathurst,  that  his 
army,  the  one  which  fought  on  June  i8th,  1815,  was  a  ^*  detesta- 
ble army.'^  What  does  the  gloomy  pile  of  bones  buried  in  the 
trenches  of  Waterloo  think  of  this  ?  England  has  been  too  mod- 
est to  herself  in  her  treatment  of  Wellington,  for  making  him  so 
great  is  making  herself  small.  Wellington  is  merely  a  hero,  like 
any  other  man.  The  Scotch  Grays,  the  Life  Guards,  Maitland  and 
Mitchell's  regiments.  Pack  and  Kempt's  infantry,  Ponsonby  and 
Somerset's  cavalry,  the  Highlanders  playing  the  bagpipes,  under 
the  shower  of  canister,  Ryland's  battalions,  the  fresh  recruits  who 
could  hardly  manage  a  musket,  and  yet  held  their  ground  against 
the  old  bands  of  Essling  and  Rivoli  —  all  this  is  grand.  Welling- 
ton was  tenacious;  that  was  his  merit,  and  we  do  not  deny  it  to 
him,  but  the  lowest  of  his  privates  and  his  troopers  was  quite  as 
solid  as  he,  and  the  iron  soldier  is  as  good  as  the  iron  duke. 
For  our  part,  all  our  glorification  is  offered  to  the  English  sol- 
dier, the  English  army,  the  English  nation;  and  if  there  must  be 
a  trophy,  it  is  to  England  that  this  trophy  is  owing.  The  Water- 
loo column  would  be  more  just,  if,  instead  of  the  figure  of  a 
man,  it  raised  to  the  clouds  the  statue  of  a  people. 

But  this  great  England  will  be  irritated  by  what  we  are  writ- 
ing here;    for  she    still   has   feudal   illusions,  after  her  1688,  and 


VICTOR  HUGO  2249 

ttie  French  1789.  This  people  believes  in  inheritance  and  hier- 
archy, and  while  no  other  excels  it  in  power  and  glory,  it  esteems 
itself  as  a  nation  and  not  as  a  people.  As  a  people,  it  readily 
subordinates  itself,  and  takes  a  lord  as  its  head;  the  workman 
lets  himself  be  despised;  the  soldier  puts  up  with  flogging.  It 
will  be  remembered  that,  at  the  battle  of  Inkermann,  a  sergeant 
who,  as  it  appears,  saved  the  British  army,  could  not  be  men- 
tioned by  Lord  Raglan,  because  the  military  hierarchy  does  not 
allow  any  hero  below  the  rank  of  officer  to  be  mentioned  in  dis- 
patches. What  we  admire  before  all,  in  an  encounter  like  Wat- 
erloo, is  the  prodigious  skill  of  chance.  The  night  raid,  the  wall 
of  Hougomont,  the  hollow  way  of  Ohain,  Grouchy  deaf  to  the 
cannon.  Napoleon's  guide  deceiving  him,  Bulow's  guide  enlight- 
ening him  —  all  this  cataclysm  is  marvelously  managed. 

Altogether,  we  will  assert,  there  is  more  of  a  massacre  than 
of  a  battle  in  Waterloo.  Waterloo,  of  all  pitched  battles,  is  the 
one  which  had  the  smallest  front  for  such  a  number  of  combat- 
ants. Napoleon's  three-quarters  of  a  league.  Wellington's  half  a 
league,  and  seventy-two  thousand  combatants  on  either  side. 
From  this  density  came  the  carnage.  The  following  calculation 
has  been  made  and  proportion  established:  loss  of  men,  at  Aus- 
terlitz,  French,  fourteen  per  cent. ;  Russian,  thirty  per  cent, ; 
Austrian,  forty-four  per  cent.  :  at  Wagram,  French,  thirteen  per 
cent. ;  Austrian,  fourteen  per  cent. :  at  Moskova,  French,  thirty- 
seven  per  cent. ;  Russian,  forty-four  per  cent. :  at  Bautzen,  French, 
thirteen  per  cent.  ;  Russian  and  Prussian,  fourteen  per  cent.  :  at 
Waterloo,  French,  fifty-six  per  cent. ;  allies,  thirty-one  per  cent.  : 
—  total  for  Waterloo,  forty-one  per  cent.,  or  out  of  one  hundred 
and  forty-four  thousand  fighting  men,  sixty  thousand  killed. 

The  field  of  Waterloo  has  at  the  present  day  that  calmness 
which  belongs  to  the  earth,  and  resembles  all  plains;  but  at 
night,  a  sort  of  visionary  mist  rises  from  it,  and  if  any  traveler 
walk  about  it,  and  listen  and  dream,  like  Virgil  on  the  mournful 
plain  of  Philippi,  the  hallucination  of  the  catastrophe  seizes  upon 
him.  The  frightful  June  i8th  lives  again,  the  false  monumental 
hill  is  leveled,  the  wondrous  lion  is  dissipated,  the  battlefield  re- 
sumes its  reality,  lines  of  infantry  undulate  on  the  plain;  furious 
galloping  crosses  the  horizon;  the  startled  dreamer  sees  the  flash 
of  sabres,  the  sparkle  of  bayonets,  the  red  light  of  shells,  the 
mbnstrous  collision  of  thunderbolts;  he  hears,  like  a  death  groan 
from  the  tomb,   the  vague  clamor  of  the  phantom  battle.     These 


2250 


VICTOR   HUGO 


shadows  are  grenadiers;  these  flashes  are  cuirassiers;  this  skeleton 
is  Napoleon;  this  skeleton  is  Wellington;  all  this  is  nonexistent, 
and  yet  still  combats,  and  the  ravines  are  stained  purple,  and  the 
trees  rustle,  and  there  is  fury  even  in  the  clouds  and  in  the 
darkness,  while  all  the  stern  heights,  Mont  St.  Jean,  Hongomont, 
Frischemont,  Papelotte,  and  Plancenoit,  seem  confusedly  crowned 
by  hosts  of  spectres  exterminating  one  another. 

Chapter  xv.  complete.     From  «  Cosette  >> 
in  «  Les  Miserables." 


2251 


ALEXANDER   VON   HUMBOLDT 
Friedrich  Heinrich  Alexander  Baron  von  Humboldt 

(1769-1859) 

luMBOLDT  was  past  seventy  when  he  set  himself  seriously  to 
the  completion  of  the  greatest  work  of  his  life, —  his  "  Cos- 
mos,'*  and  he  succeeded  so  well  that  the  world  at  once  ac- 
cepted it  as  one  of  the  greatest  masterpieces  of  civilization.  It  has 
not  lost  in  reputation  with  the  passage  of  time.  The  severity  of 
thought  required  to  follow  Humboldt's  reasoning  does  not  make  an 
intellectual  diversion  of  reading  the  « Cosmos, '>  but  Humboldt  had 
neither  the  desire  to  be  entertaining  nor  the  faculty  of  being  so. 
In  1794  he  wrote  for  Schiller's  « Die  Horen,>>  an  allegorical  essay, 
«  The  Rhodian  Genius,"  in  what  is  an  unmistakable  attempt  at  high 
literary  form.  It  is,  perhaps,  the  only  one  Humboldt  ever  made,  and 
it  will  not  detract  from  his  great  reputation  as  a  scientific  teacher  to 
confess  the  melancholy  nature  of  its  failure. 

He  was  born  at  Berlin,  September  14th,  1769.  After  study  at 
Frankfort  on  the  Oder,  Gottingen,  and  other  universities,  he  began  a 
systematic  attempt  to  acquire  a  juster  and  more  comprehensive  view 
of  nature  than  was  exhibited  in  the  writings  of  the  scientists  and 
philosophers  who  had  preceded  him.  The  natural  German  tendency 
to  lofty  metaphysical  exploration  of  the  unseen  universe,  he  stead- 
fastly resisted.  The  <<  Cosmos '>  he  explored  was  the  humble  world  of 
the  visible,  and  he  counted  nothing  in  it  too  low  to  be  without  in- 
finite significance.  When  at  last  he  realized  his  idea  in  the  "  Cos- 
mos,'>  not  only  Germany,  but  all  Europe,  honored  him  as  no  scientific 
investigator  had  been  honored  since  Newton.  He  deserved  it,  for  if 
he  made  no  astonishing  actual  discovery,  he  discovered  new  conti- 
nents of  possible  achievement  for  those  who  were  to  carry  on  his 
work  after  him. 


3252  ALEXANDER   VON   HUMBOLDT 


MAN 


THE  general  picture  of  nature  which  I  have  endeavored  to  de. 
lineate  would  be  incomplete  if  I  did  not  venture  to  trace 
a  few  of  the  most  marked  features  of  the  human  race, 
jonsidered  with  reference  to  physical  gradations  —  to  the  geo- 
oraphical  distribution  of  cotemporaneous  types  —  to  the  influence 
cercised  upon  man  by  the  forces  of  nature,  and  the  reciprocal, 
although  weaker  action  which  he,  in  his  turn,  exercises  on  these 
natural  forces.  Dependent,  although  in  a  lesser  degree  than 
plants  and  animals,  on  the  soil,  and  on  the  meteorological  proc- 
esses of  the  atmosphere  with  which  he  is  surrounded  —  escaping 
more  readily  from  the  control  of  natural  forces,  by  activity  of 
mind  and  the  advance  of  intellectual  cultivation,  no  less  than  by 
his  wonderful  capacity  of  adapting  himself  to  all  climates  —  man 
everywhere  becomes  most  essentially  associated  with  terrestrial 
life.  It  is  by  these  relations  that  the  obscure  and  much-contested 
problem  of  the  possibility  of  one  common  descent  enters  into  the 
sphere  embraced  by  a  general  physical  cosmography.  The  in- 
vestigation of  this  problem  will  impart  a  nobler,  and,  if  I  may 
so  express  myself,  more  purely  human  interest  to  the  closing 
pages  of  this  section  of  my  work. 

The  vast  domain  of  language,  in  whose  varied  structure  we 
see  mysteriously  reflected  the  destinies  of  nations,  is  most  inti- 
mately associated  with  the  affinity  of  races;  and  what  even  slight 
differences  of  races  may  effect  is  strikingly  manifested  in  the  his- 
tory of  the  Hellenic  nations  in  the  zenith  of  their  intellectual 
cultivation.  The  most  important  questions  of  the  civilization  of 
mankind  are  connected  with  the  ideas  of  races,  community  of 
language,  and  adherence  to  one  original  direction  of  the  intel- 
lectual and  moral  faculties. 

As  long  as  attention  was  directed  solely  to  the  extremes  in 
varieties  of  color  and  of  form,  and  to  the  vividness  of  the  first 
impression  of  the  senses,  the  observer  was  naturally  disposed  to 
regard  races  rather  as  originally  different  species  than  as  mere 
varieties.  The  permanence  of  certain  types  in  the  midst  of  the 
most  hostile  influences,  especially  of  climate,  appeared  to  favor 
such  a  view,  notwithstanding  the  shortness  of  the  interval  of 
time  from  which  the  historical  evidence  was  derived.  In  my 
opinion,  however,  more  powerful  reasons  can  be  advanced  in 
support  of   the  theory  of   the   unity   of   the   human    race,  as,  for 


ALEXANDER   VON   HUMBOLDT  2253 

instance,  in  the  many  intermediate  gradations  in  the  color  of  the 
skin  and  in  the  form  of  the  skull,  which  have  been  made  known 
to  us  in  recent  times  by  the  rapid  progress  of  geographical 
knowledge — the  analogies  presented  by  the  varieties  in  the  spe- 
cies of  many  wild  and  domesticated  animals  —  and  the  more  cor- 
rect observations  collected  regarding  the  limits  of  fecundity  in 
hybrids.  The  greater  number  of  the  contrasts  which  were  form- 
erly supposed  to  exist  have  disappeared  before  the  laborious  re- 
searches of  Tiedemann  on  the  brain  of  negroes  and  of  Europeans, 
and  the  anatomical  investigations  of  Vrolik  and  Weber  on  the 
form  of  the  pelvis.  On  comparing  the  dark-colored  African  na- 
tions, on  whose  physical  history  the  admirable  work  of  Prichard 
has  thrown  so  much  light,  with  the  races  inhabiting  the  islands 
of  the  South  Indian  and  West  Australian  archipelago,  and  with 
the  Papuas  and  Alfourous  (Haroforas,  Endamenes),  we  see  that 
a  black  skin,  woolly  hair,  and  a  negro-like  cast  of  countenance 
are  not  necessarily  connected  together.  So  long  as  only  a  small 
portion  of  the  earth  was  known  to  the  Western  nations,  partial 
views  necessarily  predominated,  and  tropical  heat  and  a  black 
skin  consequently  appeared  inseparable.  *^  The  Ethiopians,*^  said 
the  ancient  tragic  poet  Theodectes  of  Phaselis,  *^  are  colored  by 
the  near  sun  god  in  his  course  with  a  sooty  lustre,  and  their  hair 
is  dried  and  crisped  with  the  heat  of  his  rays.*^  The  campaigns 
of  Alexander,  which  gave  rise  to  so  many  new  ideas  regarding 
physical  geography,  likewise  first  excited  a  discussion  on  the 
problematical  influence  of  climate  on  races.  *'  Families  of  animals 
and  plants,*'  writes  one  of  the  greatest  anatomists  of  the  day, 
Johannes  Miiller,  in  his  noble  and  comprehensive  work,  "  Physi- 
ologic des  Menschen,**  "undergo,  within  certain  limitations  pecul- 
iar to  the  different  races  and  species,  various  modifications  in 
their  distribution  over  the  surface  of  the  earth,  propagating  these 
variations  as  organic  types  of  species.  The  present  races  of  ani- 
mals have  been  produced  by  the  combined  action  of  many  dif- 
ferent internal  as  well  as  external  conditions,  the  nature  of  which 
cannot  in  all  cases  be  defined,  the  most  striking  varieties  being 
found  in  those  families  which  are  capable  of  the  greatest  distri- 
bution over  the  surface  of  the  earth.  The  different  races  of 
mankind  are  forms  of  one  sole  species,  by  the  union  of  two  of 
whose  members  descendants  are  propagated.  They  are  not  dif- 
ferent species  of  a  genus,  since  in  that  case  their  hybrid  descend- 
ants  would    remain   unfruitful.      But   whether    the    human    races 


2  254  ALEXANDER  VON   HUMBOLDT 

have  descended  from  several  primitive  races  of  men,  or  from  one 
alone,  is  a  question  that  cannot  be  determined  from  experience." 
Geographical  investigations  regarding  the  ancient  seat,  the 
so-called  cradle  of  the  human  race,  are  not  devoid  of  a  mythical 
character.  "We  do  not  know,'^  says  Wilhelm  von  Humboldt,  in 
an  unpublished  work,"  On  the  Varieties  of  Languages  and  Nations,* 
"either  from  history  or  from  authentic  tradition,  any  period  of 
time  in  which  the  human  race  has  not  been  divided  into  social 
groups.  Whether  the  gregarious  condition  was  original,  or  of  sub- 
sequent occurrence,  we  have  no  historic  evidence  to  show.  The 
separate  mythical  relations  found  to  exist  independently  of  one 
another  in  different  parts  of  the  earth  appear  to  refute  the  first 
hypothesis,  and  concur  in  ascribing  the  generation  of  the  whole 
human  race  to  the  union  of  one  pair.  The  general  prevalence 
of  this  myth  has  caused  it  to  be  regarded  as  a  traditionary  record 
transmitted  from  the  primitive  man  to  his  descendants.  But  this 
very  circumstance  seems  rather  to  prove  that  it  has  no  historical 
foundation,  but  has  simply  arisen  from  an  identity  in  the  mode 
of  intellectual  conception,  which  has  everywhere  led  man  to  adopt 
the  same  conclusion  regarding  identical  phenomena;  in  the  same 
manner  as  many  myths  have  doubtlessly  arisen,  not  from  any  his- 
torical connection  existing  between  them,  but  rather  from  an  iden- 
tity in  human  thought  and  imagination.  Another  evidence  in  favor 
of  the  purely  mythical  nature  of  this  belief  is  afforded  by  the 
fact  that  the  first  origin  of  mankind  —  a  phenomenon  which  is 
wholly  beyond  the  sphere  of  experience — is  explained  in  perfect 
conformity  with  existing  views,  being  considered  on  the  principle 
of  the  colonization  of  some  desert  island  or  remote  mountainous 
valley  at  a  period  when  mankind  had  already  existed  for  thou- 
sands of  years.  It  is  in  vain  that  we  direct  our  thoughts  to  the 
solution  of  the  great  problem  of  the  first  origin,  since  man  is  too 
intimately  associated  with  his  own  race  and  with  the  relations  of 
time  to  conceive  of  the  existence  of  an  individual  independently 
of  a  preceding  generation  and  age.  A  solution  of  those  difficult 
questions,  which  cannot  be  determined  by  inductive  reasoning 
or  by  experience  —  whether  the  belief  in  this  presumed  traditional 
condition  be  actually  based  on  historical  evidence,  or  whether 
mankind  inhabited  the  earth  in  gregarious  associations  from  the 
origin  of  the  race  —  cannot,  therefore,  be  determined  from  philo- 
logical data,  and  yet  its  elucidation  ought  not  to  be  sought  from 
other  sources,* 


ALEXANDER  VON  HUMBOLDT  8255 

The  distribution  of  mankind  is,  therefore,  only  a  distribution 
into  varieties,  which  are  commonly  designated  by  the  somewhat 
indefinite  term  races.  As  in  the  vegetable  kingdom,  and  in  the 
natural  history  of  birds  and  fishes,  a  classification  into  many 
small  families  is  based  on  a  surer  foundation  than  where  large 
sections  are  separated'  into  a  few  but  large  divisions,  so  it  also 
appears  to  me  that  in  the  determination  of  races  a  preference 
should  be  given  to  the  establishment  of  small  families  of  nations. 
Whether  we  adopt  the  old  classification  of  my  master,  Blumen- 
bach,  and  admit  five  races  (the  Caucasian,  Mongolian,  American, 
Ethiopian,  and  Malayan),  or  that  of  Prichard,  into  seven  races 
(the  Iranian,  Turanian,  American,  Hottentots  and  Bushmen,  Ne- 
groes, Papuas,  and  Alfourous),  we  fail  to  recognize  any  typical 
sharpness  of  definition,  or  any  general  or  well-established  princi- 
ple in  the  division  of  these  groups.  The  extremes  of  form  and 
color  are  certainly  separated,  but  without  regard  to  the  races, 
which  cannot  be  included  in  any  of  these  classes,  and  which  have 
been  alternately  termed  Scythian  and  Allophyllic.  Iranian  is 
certainly  a  less  objectionable  term  for  the  European  nations  than 
Caucasian ;  but  it  may  be  maintained  generally  that  geographical 
denominations  are  very  vague  when  used  to  express  the  points 
of  departure  of  races,  more  especially  where  the  country  which 
has  given  its  name  to  the  race,  as,  for  instance,  Turan  (Maweran- 
nahr),  has  been  inhabited  at  different  periods  by  Indo-Germanic 
and  Finnish,  and  not  by  Mongolian  tribes. 

Languages,  as  intellectual  creations  of  man,  and  as  closely 
interwoven  with  the  development  of  mind,  are,  independently  of 
the  national  form  which  they  exhibit,  of  the  greatest  importance 
in  the  recognition  of  similarities  or  differences  in  races.  This 
importance  is  especially  owing  to  the  clew  which  a  community 
of  descent  affords  in  treading  that  mysterious  labyrinth  in  which 
the  connection  of  physical  powers  and  intellectual  forces  mani- 
fests itself  in  a  thousand  different  forms.  The  brilliant  progress 
made  within  the  last  half-century,  in  Germany,  in  philosophical 
philologfy,  has  greatly  facilitated  our  investigations  into  the  na- 
tional character  of  languages  and  the  influence  exercised  by  de- 
scent. But  here,  as  in  all  domains  of  ideal  speculation,  the  dangers 
of  deception  are  closely  linked  to  the  rich  and  certain  profit  to  be 
derived. 

'  Positive    ethnographical    studies,   based  on   a    thorough    knowl- 
edge of  history,  teach  us  that  much  caution  should  be  applied  in 


2256  ALEXANDER  VON  HUMBOLDT 

entering  into  these  comparisons  of  nations,  and  of  the  langfuages 
employed  by  them  at  certain  epochs.  Subjection,  long  associa- 
tion, the  influence  of  a  foreign  religion,  the  blending  of  races, 
even  when  only  including  a  small  number  of  the  more  influential 
and  cultivated  of  the  immigrating  tribes,  have  produced,  in  both 
continents,  similarly  recurring .  phenomena ;  as,  for  instance,  in  in- 
troducing totally  different  families  of  languages  among  one  and 
the  same  race,  and  idioms,  having  one  common  root,  among  na- 
tions of  the  most  different  origin.  Great  Asiatic  conquerors  have 
exercised  the  most  powerful  influence  on  phenomena  of  this  kind. 

But  language  is  a  part  and  parcel  of  the  history  of  the  de- 
velopment of  mind;  and,  however  happily  the  human  intellect, 
under  the  most  dissimilar  physical  conditions,  may  unfettered 
pursue  a  self-chosen  track,  and  strive  to  free  itself  from  the  do- 
minion of  terrestrial  influences,  this  emancipation  is  never  per- 
fect. There  ever  remains,  in  the  natural  capacities  of  the  mind, 
a  trace  of  something  that  has  been  derived  from  the  influences 
of  race  or  of  climate,  whether  they  be  associated  with  a  land 
gladdened  by  cloudless  azure  skies,  or  with  the  vapory  atmos- 
phere of  an  insular  region.  As,  therefore,  richness  and  grace  of 
language  are  unfolded  from  the  most  luxuriant  depths  of  thought, 
we  have  been  unwilling  wholly  to  disregard  the  bond  which  so 
closely  links  together  the  physical  world  with  the  sphere  of  intel- 
lect and  of  the  feelings  by  depriving  this  general  picture  of  na- 
ture of  those  brighter  lights  and  tints  which  may  be  borrowed 
from  considerations,  however  slightly  indicated,  of  the  relations 
existing  between  races  and  languages. 

While  we  maintain  the  unity  of  the  human  species,  we  at  the 
same  time  repel  the  depressing  assumption  of  superior  and  in- 
ferior races  of  men.  There  are  nations  more  susceptible  of  culti- 
vation, more  highly  civilized,  more  ennobled  by  mental  cultivation 
than  others,  but  none  in  themselves  nobler  than  others.  All  are 
in  like  degree  designed  for  freedom;  a  freedom  which,  in  the 
ruder  conditions  of  society,  belongs  only  to  the  individual,  but 
which,  in  social  states  enjoying  political  institutions,  appertains  as 
a  right  to  the  whole  body  of  the  community.  "  If  we  would  in- 
dicate an  idea  which,  throughout  the  whole  course  of  history,  has 
ever  more  and  more  widely  extended  its  empire,  or  which,  more 
than  any  other,  testifies  to  the  much-contested  and  still  more  de- 
cidedly misunderstood  perfectibility  of  the  whole  human  race,  it 
is   that    of    establishing   our    common   humanity  —  of    striving    to 


ALEXANDER  VON   HUMBOLDT  2257 

remove  the  barriers  which  prejudice  and  limited  views  of  every 
kind  have  erected  among  men,  and  to  treat  all  mankind,  without 
reference  to  religion,  nation,  or  color,  as  one  fraternity,  one  great 
community,  fitted  for  the  attainment  of  one  object,  the  unre- 
strained development  of  the  physical  powers.  This  is  the  ulti- 
mate and  highest  aim  of  society,  identical  with  the  direction 
implanted  by  nature  in  the  mind  of  man  toward  the  indefinite 
extension  of  his  existence.  He  regards  the  earth  in  all  its  limits, 
and  the  heavens  as  far  as  his  eye  can  scan  their  bright  and  starry 
depths,  as  inwardly  his  own,  given  to  him  as  the  objects  of  his 
contemplation,  and  as  a  field  for  the  development  of  his  energies. 
Even  the  child  longs  to  pass  the  hills  or  the  seas  which  inclose 
his  narrow  home;  yet,  when  his  eager  steps  have  borne  him  be- 
yond those  limits,  he  pines,  like  the  plant,  for  his  native  soil; 
and  it  is  by  this  touching  and  beautiful  attribute  of  man  —  this 
longing  for  that  which  is  unknown,  and  this  fond  remembrance 
of  that  which  is  lost  —  that  he  is  spared  from  an  exclusive  at- 
tachment to  the  present.  Thus  deeply  rooted  in  the  innermost 
nature  of  man,  and  even  enjoined  upon  him  by  his  highest  ten- 
dencies, the  recognition  of  the  bond  of  humanity  becomes  one  of 
the  noblest  leading  principles  in  the  history  of  mankind.** 

With  these  words,  which  draw  their  charm  from  the  depths 
of  feeHng,  let  a  brother  be  permitted  to  close  this  general  de- 
scription of  the  natural  phenomena  of  the  universe.  From  the 
remotest  nebulae  and  from  the  revolving  double  stars,  we  have 
descended  to  the  minutest  organisms  of  animal  creation,  whether 
manifested  in  the  depths  of  ocean  or  on  the  surface  of  our 
globe,  and  to  the  delicate  vegetable  germs  which  clothe  the 
naked  declivity  of  the  ice-crowned  mountain  summit;  and  here 
we  have  been  able  to  arrange  these  phenomena  according  to 
partially  known  laws;  but  other  laws  of  a  more  mysterious  na- 
ture rule  the  higher  spheres  of  the  organic  world,  in  which  is 
comprised  the  human  species  in  all  its  varied  conformation,  its 
creative  intellectual  power,  and  the  languages  to  which  it  has 
given  existence.  A  physical  delineation  of  nature  terminates  at 
the  point  where  the  sphere  of  intellect  begins,  and  a  new  world 
of  mind  is  opened  to  our  view.      It  marks  the  limit,  but  docs  nut 

pass  it. 

From  Humboldt's  «Cosmos.» 

VI — 142 


325^ 


DAVID   HUME 

(1711-1776) 

(ume's  expectation  of  popularity  from  his  *  Essays  '^  seems  to  have 
been  modest,  while  from  his  « Treatise  on  Human  Nature  >> 
he  anticipated  success  which  would  make  him  at  once  one  of 
the  dictators  of  philosophical  thought.  To  his  intense  disappointment, 
no  one  noticed  the  <^  Treatise,*^  while  the  "  Essays ^^  gave  him  immediate 
reputation.  It  was  so  with  nearly  all  the  rest  of  what  he  esteemed 
his  great  works.  His  "  Enquiry  Concerning  the  Human  Understand- 
ing "  and  his  *^  Natural  History  of  Religion  '*  failed  to  reward  him  with 
the  applause  he  expected,  while  his  ^*  History  of  England  '^  was  im- 
mediately accepted  at  a  valuation  at  least  as  high  as  he  himself  had 
put  upon  it.  He  had,  to  a  remarkable  degree,  what  Sidney  Smith 
called  the  Scotch  love  of  <<  metapheesics,"  and  if  it  brought  him  lit- 
tle besides  opprobrium  from  his  own  generation,  it  has  caused  him 
to  be  studied  by  all  subsequent  generations  with  Locke  and  Berkeley 
as  one  of  the  few  British  philosophers  whose  opinions,  right  or  wrong, 
are  too  important  to  be  left  out  of  consideration. 

He  was  born  in  Edinburgh,  April  26th,  171 1.  He  studied  at  the 
university  of  his  native  city,  but  he  owed  his  education  more  to  him- 
self than  to  scholastic  training.  His  means  were  always  limited  and 
his  life  regular.  He  made  a  deliberate  and  successful  attempt  to 
suppress  everything  in  himself  which  threatened  to  interfere  with 
his  work.  His  writings  need  not  be  defended  against  the  attacks 
made  upon  them  during  his  lifetime  and  since.  But  as  far  as  he 
taught  the  scientific  <<  skepticism,*  which  means  <<  looking"  into  all 
the  phenomena  of  nature  as  the  revelation  of  unity  of  purpose,  he  is 
entitled  to  be  classed  with  those  whose  work  made  possible  the  edu- 
cated scientific  intellect  of  which  the  locomotive,  the  telegraph,  and 
the  electric  motor  are  manifestations. 


DAVID  HUME  2259 


OF  THE  DIGNITY  OR  MEANNESS  OF   HUMAN  NATURE 

THERE  are  certain  sects  which  secretly  form  themselves  in  the 
learned  world  as  well  as  factions  in  the  political;  and 
though  sometimes  they  come  not  to  an  open  rupture,  they 
g^ve  a  different  turn  to  the  ways  of  thinking  of  those  who  have 
taken  part  on  either  side.  The  most  remarkable  of  this  kind  are 
the  sects  founded  on  the  different  sentiments  with  regard  to  the 
dignity  of  human  nature;  which  is  a  point  that  seems  to  have 
divided  philosophers  and  poets  as  well  as  divines  from  the  be- 
ginning of  the  world  to  this  day.  Some  exalt  our  species  to  the 
skies,  and  represent  man  as  a  kind  of  human  demigod,  who  de- 
rives his  origin  from  heaven,  and  retains  evident  marks  of  his 
lineage  and  descent.  Others  insist  upon  the  blind  sides  of  hu- 
man nature,  and  can  discover  nothing,  except  vanity,  in  which 
man  surpasses  the  other  animals,  whom  he  affects  so  much  to 
despise.  If  an  author  possess  the  talent  of  rhetoric  and  declama- 
tion, he  commonly  takes  part  with  the  former;  if  his  turn  lie 
towards  irony  and  ridicule,  he  naturally  throws  himself  into  the 
other  extreme. 

I  am  far  from  thinking  that  all  those  who  have  depreciated 
our  species  have  been  enemies  to  virtue,  and  have  exposed  the 
frailties  of  their  fellow-creatures  with  any  bad  intention.  On 
the  contrary,  I  am  sensible  that  a  delicate  sense  of  morals,  espe- 
cially when  attended  with  a  splenetic  temper,  is  apt  to  give  a 
man  a  disgust  of  the  world,  and  to  make  him  consider  the  com- 
mon course  of  human  affairs  with  too  much  indignation.  I 
must,  however,  be  of  opinion  that  the  sentiments  of  those  who 
are  inclined  to  think  favorably  of  mankind  are  more  advanta- 
geous to  virtue  than  the  contrary  principles,  which  give  us  a  mean 
opinion  of  our  nature.  When  a  man  is  prepossessed  with  a  high 
notion  of  his  rank  and  character  in  the  creation,  he  will  naturally 
endeavor  to  act  up  to  it,  and  will  scorn  to  do  a  base  or  vicious 
action,  which  might  sink  him  below  that  figure  which  he  makes 
in  his  own  imagination.  Accordingly  we  find  that  all  our  polite 
and  fashionable  moralists  insist  upon  this  topic,  and  endeavor  to 
represent  vice  as  unworthy  of  man,  as  well  as  odious  in  itself. 

We  find  few  disputes  that  are  not  founded  on  some  ambiguity 
in  the  expression ;   and  I  am  persuaded  that  the  present  dispute, 


2  2  6o  DAVID  HUME 

concerning  the  dignity  or  meanness  of  human  nature,  is  not  more 
exempt  from  it  than  any  other.  It  may,  therefore,  be  worth 
while  to  consider  what  is  real  and  what  is  only  verbal  in  this 
controversy. 

That  there  is  a  natural  difference  between  merit  and  demerit, 
virtue  and  vice,  wisdom  and  folly,  no  reasonable  man  will  deny; 
yet  it  is  evident  that  in  affixing  the  term,  which  denotes  either 
our  approbation  or  blame,  we  are  commonly  more  influenced  by 
comparison  than  by  any  fixed  unalterable  standard  in  the  nature 
of  things.  In  like  manner,  quantity  and  extension  and  bulk  are 
by  every  one  acknowledged  to  be  real  things;  but  when  we  call 
any  animal  great  or  little,  we  always  form  a  secret  comparison 
between  that  animal  and  others  of  the  same  species;  and  it  is 
that  comparison  which  regulates  our  judgment  concerning  its 
greatness.  A  dog  and  a  horse  may  be  of  the  very  same  size, 
while  the  one  is  admired  for  the  greatness  of  its  bulk  and  the 
other  for  the  smallness.  When  I  am  present,  therefore,  at  any 
dispute,  I  always  consider  with  myself  whether  it  be  a  question 
of  comparison  or  not  that  is  the  subject  of  the  controversy;  and 
if  it  be,  whether  the  disputants  compare  the  same  objects  to- 
gether, or  talk  of  things  that  are  widely  different. 

In  forming  our  notions  of  human  nature,  we  are  apt  to  make 
a  comparison  between  men  and  animals,  the  only  creatures  en- 
dowed with  thought  that  fall  under  our  senses.  Certainly  this 
comparison  is  favorable  to  mankind.  On  the  one  hand,  we  see  a 
creature,  whose  thoughts  are  not  limited  by  any  narrow  bounds, 
either  of  place  or  time;  who  carries  his  researches  into  the  most 
distant  regions  of  this  globe,  and  beyond  this  globe,  to  the  plan- 
ets and  heavenly  bodies;  looks  backward  to  consider  the  first 
origin,  at  least,  the  history  of  the  human  race;  casts  his  eye  for- 
ward to  see  the  influence  of  his  action  upon  posterity,  and  the 
judgments  which  will  be  formed  of  his  character  a  thousand 
years  hence;  a  creature,  who  traces  causes  and  effects  to  a  great 
length  and  intricacy;  extracts  general  principles  from  particular 
appearances;  improves  upon  his  discoveries;  corrects  his  mistakes; 
and  makes  his  very  errors  profitable.  On  the  other  hand,  we  are 
presented  with  a  creature  the  very  reverse  of  this;  limited  in  its 
observations  and  reasonings  to  a  few  sensible  objects  which  sur- 
round it;  without  curiosity,  without  foresight;  blindly  conducted 
by  instinct,  and   attaining,  in  a  short   time,  its  utmost   perfection, 


DAVID   HUME  2261 

beyond  which  it  is  never  able  to  advance  a  single  step.  What  a 
wide  difference  is  there  between  these  creatures!  And  how  ex- 
alted a  notion  must  we  entertain  of  the  former,  in  comparison  of 
the  latter! 

There  are  two  means  commonly  employed  to  destroy  this  con- 
clusion: I.  By  making  an  unfair  representation  of  the  case,  and 
insisting  only  upon  the  weaknesses  of  human  nature.  And,  2.  By 
forming  a  new  and  secret  comparison  between  man  and  beings 
of  the  most  perfect  wisdom.  Among  the  other  excellencies  of 
man,  this  is  one,  that  he  can  form  an  idea  of  perfections  much 
beyond  what  he  has  experience  of  in  himself;  and  is  not  limited 
in  his  conception  of  wisdom  and  virtue.  He  can  easily  exalt  his 
notions,  and  conceive  a  degree  of  knowledge,  which,  when  com- 
pared to  his  own,  will  make  the  latter  appear  very  contemptible, 
and  will  cause  the  difference  between  that  and  the  sagacity  of 
animals,  in  a  manner,  to  disappear  and  vanish.  Now  this  being 
a  point,  in  which  all  the  world  is  agreed,  that  human  understand- 
ing falls  infinitely  short  of  perfect  wisdom,  it  is  proper  we  should 
know  when  this  comparison  takes  place,  that  we  may  not  dispute 
where  there  is  no  real  difference  in  our  sentiments.  Man  falls 
much  more  short  of  perfect  wisdom,  and  even  of  his  own  ideas 
of  perfect  wisdom,  than  animals  do  of  man;  yet  the  latter  differ- 
ence is  so  considerable,  that  nothing  but  a  comparison  with  the 
former  can  make  it  appear  of  little  moment. 

It  is  also  usual  to  compare  one  man  with  another;  and  finding 
very  few  whom  we  can  call  wise  or  virtuous,  we  are  apt  to  en- 
tertain a  contemptible  notion  of  our  species  in  general.  That  we 
may  be  sensible  of  the  fallacy  of  this  way  of  reasoning,  we  may 
observe  that  the  honorable  appellations  of  wise  and  virtuous  arc 
not  annexed  to  any  particular  degree  of  those  qualities  of  wis- 
dom and  virtue,  but  arise  altogether  from  the  comparison  we 
make  between  one  man  and  another.  When  we  find  a  man,  who 
arrives  at  such  a  pitch  of  wisdom  as  is  very  uncommon,  wc  pro- 
nounce him  a  wise  man:  so  that  to  say  there  arc  few  wise  men 
in  the  world  is  really  to  say  nothing,  since  it  is  only  by  their 
scarcity  that  they  merit  that  appellation.  Were  the  lowest  of  our 
species  as  wise  as  Tully,  or  Lord  Bacon,  we  should  still  have  rea- 
son to  say  that  there  are  few  wise  men.  For  in  that  case  we 
should  exalt  our  notions  of  wisdom,  and  should  not  pay  a  singu- 
lar honor  to  any  one,  who  was  not  singularly  distinguished  by  his 
talents.     In  like  manner,  I  have  heard  it  observed  by  thoughtless 


2262  DAVID  HUME 

people,  that  there  are  few  women  possessed  of  beauty  in  com- 
parison of  those  who  want  it,  not  considering  that  we  bestow  the 
epithet  of  "  beautiful  '*  only  on  such  as  possess  a  degree  of  beauty 
that  is  common  to  them  with  few.  The  same  degree  of  beauty 
in  a  woman  is  called  deformity,  which  is  treated  as  real  beauty  in 
one  of  our  sex. 

As  it  is  usual,  in  forming  a  notion  of  our  species,  to  compare 
it  with  the  other  species  above  or  below  it,  or  to  compare  the 
individuals  of  the  species  among  themselves,  so  we  often  compare 
together  the  different  motives  or  actuating  principles  of  human 
nature,  in  order  to  regulate  our  judgment  concerning  it.  And, 
indeed,  this  is  the  only  kind  of  comparison  which  is  worth  our 
attention,  or  decides  anything  in  the  present  question.  Were 
our  selfish  and  vicious  principles  so  much  predominant  above  our 
social  and  virtuous,  as  is  asserted  by  some  philosophers,  we  ought 
undoubtedly  to  entertain  a  contemptible  notion  of  human  nature. 

There  is  much  of  a  dispute  of  words  in  all  this  controversy. 
When  a  man  denies  the  sincerity  of  all  public  spirit  or  affection 
to  a  country  and  community,  I  am  at  a  loss  what  to  think  of  him. 
Perhaps  he  never  felt  this  passion  in  so  clear  and  distinct  a 
manner  as  to  remove  all  his  doubts  concerning  its  force  and 
reality.  But  when  he  proceeds  afterwards  to  reject  all  private 
friendship,  if  no  interest  or  self-love  intermix  itself,  I  am  then 
confident  that  he  abuses  terms,  and  confounds  the  ideas  of 
things;  since  it  is  impossible  for  any  one  to  be  so  selfish,  or 
rather  so  stupid,  as  to  make  no  difference  between  one  man  and 
another,  and  give  no  preference  to  qualities  which  engage  his  ap- 
probation and  esteem.  Is  he  also,  say  I,  as  insensible  to  anger 
as  he  pretends  to  be  to  friendship  ?  And  does  injury  and  wrong 
no  more  affect  him  than  kindness  or  benefits  ?  Impossible.  He 
does  not  know  himself.  He  has  forgotten  the  movements  of  his 
heart;  or,  rather,  he  makes  use  of  a  different  language  from  the 
rest  of  his  countrymen,  and  calls  not  things  by  their  proper 
names.  <<  What  say  you  of  natural  affection  ;"  **  I  subjoin.  <<  Is  that 
also  a  species  of  self-love  ?  >>  <<  Yes;  all  is  self-love.  Your  children 
are  loved  only  because  they  are  yours.  Your  friend  for  a  like 
reason.  And  your  country  engages  you  only  so  far  as  it  has  a 
connection  with  yourself.  Were  the  idea  of  self  removed,  nothing 
would  affect  you.  You  would  be  altogether  inactive  and  insen- 
sible. Or  if  you  ever  give  yourself  any  movement,  it  would 
only  be  from  vanity,  and  a  desire  of  fame  and  reputation  to  this 


DAVID  HUME  2263 

same  self.**  **I  am  willing, »  reply  I,  «to  receive  your  interpretation 
of  human  actions,  provided  you  admit  the  facts.  That  species  of 
self-love,  which  displays  itself  in  kindness  to  others,  you  must 
allow  to  have  great  influence  over  human  actions,  and  even 
greater,  on  many  occasions,  than  that  which  remains  in  its  orig- 
inal shape  and  form.  For  how  few  are  there,  who,  Jiaving  a 
family,  children,  and  relations,  do  not  spend  more  on  the  main- 
tenance and  education  of  these  than  on  their  own  pleasures  ? 
This,  indeed,  you  justly  observe,  may  proceed  from  their  self- 
love,  since  the  prosperity  of  their  family  and  friends  is  one,  or 
the  chief,  of  their  pleasures,  as  well  as  their  chief  honor.  Be 
you  also  one  of  these  selfish  men,  and  you  are  sure  of  every 
one's  good  opinion  and  good- will;  or,  not  to  shock  your  ears 
with  these  expressions,  the  self-love  of  every  one,  and  mine  among 
the  rest,  will  then  incline  us  to  serve  you  and  speak  well  of  you.** 

In  my  opinion,  there  are  two  things  which  have  led  astray 
those  philosophers  that  have  insisted  so  much  on  the  selfish- 
ness of  man.  i.  They  found  that  every  act  of  virtue  or  friend- 
ship was  attended  with  a  secret  pleasure;  whence  they  concluded 
that  friendship  and  virtue  could  not  be  disinterested.  But  the 
fallacy  of  this  is  obvious.  The  virtuous  sentiment  or  passion  pro- 
duces the  pleasure,  and  does  not  arise  from  it.  I  feel  a  pleasure 
in  doing  good  to  my  friend,  because  I  love  him ;  but  do  not  love 
him  for  the  sake  of  that  pleasure. 

2.  It  has  always  been  found  that  the  virtuous  are  far  from 
being  indifferent  to  praise;  and  therefore  they  have  been  repre- 
sented as  a  set  of  vainglorious  men,  who  had  nothing  in  view 
but  the  applause  of  others.  But  this  also  is  a  fallacy.  It  is 
very  unjust  in  the  world,  when  they  find  any  tincture  of  vanity 
in  a  laudable  action  to  depreciate  it  upon  that  account,  or  ascribe 
it  entirely  to  that  motive.  The  case  is  not  the  same  with  vanity 
as  with  other  passions.  Where  avarice  or  revenge  enters  into 
any  seemingly  virtuous  action,  it  is  difficult  for  us  to  determine 
how  far  it  enters,  and  it  is  natural  to  suppose  it  the  sole  actuat- 
ing principle.  Bu-t  vanity  is  so  closely  allied  to  virtue,  and  to  love 
the  fame  of  laudable  actions  approaches  so  near  the  love  of  laud- 
able actions  for  their  own  sake,  that  these  passions  are  more 
capable  of  mixture  than  any  other  kinds  of  affection;  and  it  is 
almost  impossible  to  have  the  latter  without  some  degree  of  the 
former.  Accordingly,  we  find  that  this  passion  for  glory  is  always 
warped  and  varied  according  to  the  particular  taste  or  disposition 


2264  DAVID   HUME 

of  the    mind   on   which   it   falls.      Nero   had    the    same  vanity  in 

driving  a  chariot  that  Trajan  had  in  governing   the  empire  with 

justice  and  ability.     To  love  the  glory  of  virtuous  deeds  is  a  sure 

proof  of  the  love  of  virtue. 

Complete. 


OF  THE    FIRST   PRINCIPLES   OF   GOVERNMENT 

NOTHING  appears  more  surprising  to  those  who  consider  hu- 
man affairs  with  a  philosophical  eye  than  the  easiness  with 
which  the  many  are  governed  by  the  few;  and  the  implicit 
submission  with  which  men  resign  their  own  sentiments  and 
passions  to  those  of  their  rulers.  When  we  inquire  by  what 
means  this  wonder  is  effected,  we  shall  find  that  as  Force  is 
always  on  the  side  of  the  governed,  the  governors  have  nothing 
to  support  them  but  opinion.  It  is,  therefore,  on  opinion  only  that 
governm-ent  is  founded;  and  this  maxim  extends  to  the  most  des- 
potic and  most  military  governments,  as  well  as  to  the  most  free 
and  most  popular.  The  soldan  of  Egypt,  or  the  emperor  of  Rome, 
might  drive  his  harmless  subj-ects,  like  brute  beasts,  against  their 
sentiments  and  inclination;  but  he  must,  at  least,  have  led  his 
mamelukes,  or  pretorian  bands,  like  men,  by  their  opinions. 

Opinion  is  of  two  kinds,  to  wit,  opinion  of  interest,  and  opin- 
ion of  right.  By  opinion  of  interest,  I  chiefly  understand  the 
sense  of  the  general  advantage  which  is  reaped  from  govern- 
ment, together  with  the  persuasion  that  the  particular  government, 
which  is  established,  is  equally  advantageous  with  any  other  that 
could  easily  be  settled.  When  this  opinion  prevails  among  the 
generality  of  a  state,  or  among  those  who  have  the  force  in  their 
hands,  it  will  give  great  security  to  any  government. 

Right  is  of  two  kinds,  right  to  Power  and  right  to  Property. 
What  prevalence  opinion  of  the  first  kind  has  over  mankind  may 
easily  be  understood  by  observing  the  attachment  which  all  na- 
tions have  to  their  ancient  government,  and  even  to  those  names 
which  have  had  the  sanction  of  antiquity.  Antiquity  always  be- 
gets the  opinion  of  right;  and  whatever  disadvantageous  senti- 
ments we  may  entertain  of  mankind,  they  are  always  found  to 
be  prodigal  both  of  blood  and  treasure  in  the  maintenance  of 
public  justice.  There  is,  indeed,  no  particular,  in  which,  at  first 
sight,  there  may  appear  a  greater  contradiction  in  the  frame  of 
the  human  mind  than  the  present.     When  men  act  in  a  faction, 


DAVID  HUME  2265 

they  are  apt,  without  shame  or  remorse,  to  neglect  all  the  ties  of 
honor  and  morality,  in  order  to  serve  their  party;  and  yet  when 
a  faction  is  formed  upon  a  point  of  right  or  principle,  there  is 
no  occasion,  where  men  discover  a  greater  obstinacy,  and  a  more 
determined  sense  of  justice  and  equity.  The  same  social  disposi- 
tion of  mankind  is  the  cause  of  these  contradictory  appearances. 
It  is  sufficiently  understood  that  the  opinion  of  right  to  prop- 
ertv  is  of  moment  in  all  matters  of  government.  A  noted  author 
has  made  property  the  foundation  of  all  government;  and  most 
of  our  political  writers  seem  inclined  to  follow  him  in  that  partic- 
ular. This  is  carrying  the  matter  too  far;  but  still  it  must  be 
owned  that  the  opinion  of  right  to  property  has  a  great  influence 
in  this  subject. 

Upon  these  three  opinions,  therefore,  of  public  interest,  of 
right  to  power,  and  of  right  to  property,  are  all  governments 
founded,  and  all  authority  of  the  few  over  the  many.  There  are, 
indeed,  other  principles,  which  add  force  to  these,  and  determine, 
limit,  or  alter  their  operation,  —  such  as  self-interest,  fear,  and  af- 
fection; but  still  we  may  assert  that  these  other  principles  can 
have  no  influence  alone,  but  suppose  the  antecedent  influence  of 
those  opinions  above  mentioned.  They  are,  therefore,  to  be  es- 
teemed the  secondary,  not  the  original  principles  of  government. 
For,  first,  as  to  self-interest,  by  which  I  mean  the  expectation 
of  particular  rewards,  distinct  from  the  general  protection  which 
we  receive  from  government,  it  is  evident  that  the  magistrate's 
authority  must  be  antecedently  established,  at  least  be  hoped  for, 
in  order  to  produce  this  expectation.  The  prospect  of  reward 
may  augment  his  authority  with  regard  to  some  particular  per- 
sons; but  can  never  give  birth  to  it,  with  regard  to  the  public. 
Men  naturally  look  for  the  greatest  favors  from  their  friends  and 
acquaintance;  and,  therefore,  the  hopes  of  any  considerable  num- 
ber of  the  state  would  never  centre  in  any  particular  set  of  men, 
if  these  men  had  no  other  title  to  magistracy,  and  had  no  sepa- 
rate influence  over  the  opinions  of  mankind.  The  same  observa- 
tion may  be  extended  to  the  other  two  principles  of  fear  and 
affection.  No  man  would  have  any  reason  to  fear  the  fury  of  a 
tyrant,  if  he  had  no  authority  over  any  but  from  fear;  since,  as 
a  single  man,  his  bodily  force  can  reach  but  a  small  way,  and  all 
the  further  power  he  possesses  must  be  founded  either  on  our 
own  opinion,  or  on  the  presumed  opinion  of  others.  And  though 
affection  to  wisdom  and  virtue  in  a  sovereign  extends  very  far, 


2  266  DAVID  HUME 

and  has  great  influence,  yet  he  must  antecedently  be  supposed 
invested  with  a  public  character,  otherwise  the  public  esteem  will 
serve  him  in  no  stead,  nor  will  his  virtue  have  any  influence  be- 
yond a  narrow  sphere. 

A  government  may  endure  for  several  ages,  though  the  bal- 
ance of  power  and  the  balance  of  property  do  not  coincide. 
This  chiefly  happens  where  any  rank  or  order  of  the  state  has 
acquired  a  large  share  in  the  property;  but,  from  the  original 
constitution  of  the  government,  has  no  share  in  the  power.  Un- 
der what  pretense  would  any  individual  of  that  order  assume  au- 
thority in  public  affairs  ?  As  men  are  commonly  much  attached 
to  their  ancient  government,  it  is  not  to  be  expected  that  the 
public  would  ever  favor  such  usurpations.  But  where  the  origi- 
nal constitution  allows  any  share  of  power,  though  small,  to  an 
order  of  men,  who  possess  a  large  share  of  the  property,  it  is 
easy  for  them  gradually  to  stretch  their  authority,  and  bring  the 
balance  of  power  to  coincide  with  that  of  property.  This  has 
been  the  case  with  the  House  of  Commons  in  England. 

Most  writers  that  have  treated  of  the  British  government 
have  supposed  that,  as  the  Lower  House  represents  all  the  com- 
mons of  Great  Britain,  its  weight  in  the  scale  is  proportioned  to 
the  property  and  power  of  all  whom  it  represents.  But  this  prin- 
ciple must  not  be  received  as  absolutely  true.  For  though  the 
people  are  apt  to  attach  themselves  more  to  the  House  of  Com- 
mons than  to  any  other  member  of  the  constitution,  the  House 
being  chosen  by  them  as  their  representatives,  and  as  the  public 
guardians  of  their  liberty,  yet  are  there  instances  where  the 
House,  even  when  in  opposition  to  the  crown,  has  not  been  fol- 
lowed by  the  people;  as  we  may  particularly  observe  of  the  tory 
House  of  Commons  in  the  reign  of  King  William.  Were  the 
members  obliged  to  receive  instructions  from  their  constituents, 
like  the  Dutch  deputies,  this  would  entirely  alter  the  case;  and 
if  such  immense  power  and  riches,  as  those  of  all  the  commons 
of  Great  Britain,  were  brought  into  the  scale,  it  is  not  easy  to 
conceive  that  the  crown  could  either  influence  that  multitude  of 
people,  or  withstand  that  balance  of  property.  It  is  true  the 
crown  has  great  influence  over  the  collective  body  in  the  elec- 
tions of  members;  but  were  this  influence,  which  at  present  is 
only  exerted  once  in  seven  years,  to  be  employed  in  bringing 
over  the  people  to  every  vote,  it  would  soon  be  wasted,  and  no 
skill,  popularity,  or  revenue,  could  support  it.     I  must,  therefore. 


DAVID  HUME  2267 

be  of  opinion  that  an  alteration  in  this  particular  would  intro- 
duce a  total  alteration  in  our  government,  and  would  soon  reduce 
it  to  a  pure  republic, —  and,  perhaps,  to  a  republic  of  no  inconven- 
ient form.  For  though  the  people,  collected  in  a  body  like  the 
Roman  tribes,  be  quite  unfit  for  government,  yet,  when  dispersed 
in  small  bodies,  they  are  more  susceptible  both  of  reason  and  or- 
der; the  force  of  popular  currents  and  tides  is,  in  a  great  meas- 
ure, broken;  and  the  public  interest  may  be  pursued  with  some 
method  and  constancy.  But  it  is  needless  to  reason  any  further 
concerning  a  form  of  government  which  is  never  likely  to  have 
place  in  Great  Britain,  and  which  seems  not  to  be  the  aim  of 
any  party  amongst  us.  Let  us  cherish  and  improve  our  ancient 
government  as  much  as  possible   without  encouraging  a   passion 

for  such  dangerous  novelties. 

Complete. 

OF   INTEREST 

LowNESS  of  interest  is  generally  ascribed  to  plenty  of  money. 
But  money,  however  plentiful,  has  no  other  effect,  if  fixed, 
than  to  raise  the  price  of  labor.  Silver  is  more  common 
than  gold;  and  therefore  you  receive  a  greater  quantity  of  it  for 
the  same  commodities.  But  do  you  pay  less  interest  for  it  ?  In- 
terest in  Batavia  and  Jamaica  is  at  ten  per  cent.,  in  Portugal  at 
six;  though  these  places,  as  we  may  learn  from  the  prices  of 
everything,  abound  more  in  gold  and  silver  than  either  London 
or  Amsterdam. 

Were  all  the  gold  in  England  annihilated  at  once,  and  one 
and  twenty  shillings  substituted  in  the  place  of  every  guinea, 
would  money  be  more  plentiful,  or  interest  lower?  No,  surely; 
we  should  only  use  silver  instead  of  gold.  Were  gold  rendered 
as  common  as  silver,  and  silver  as  common  as  copper,  would 
money  be  more  plentiful  or  interest  lower  ?  We  may  assuredly 
give  the  same  answer.  Our  shillings  would  then  be  yellow,  and 
our  halfpence  white ;  and  we  should  have  no  guineas.  No  other 
difference  would  ever  be  observed, —  no  alteration  on  commerce, 
manufactures,  navigation,  or  interest, —  unless  we  imagine  that  the 
color  of  the  metal  is  of  any  consequence. 

-Now,  what  is  so  visible  in  these  greater  variations  of  scarcity 
or  abundance  in  the  precious  metals  must  hold  in  all  inferior 
changes.  If  the  multiplying  of  gold  and  silver  fifteen  times  makes 
no  difference,  much  less  can  the  doubling  or  tripling  them.     All 


2268  DAVID   HUME 

augmentation  has  no  other  effect  than  to  heighten  the  price  of 
labor  and  commodities;  and  even  this  variation  is  little  more  than 
that  of  a  name.  In  the  progress  towards  these  changes,  the  aug- 
mentation may  have  some  influence,  by  exciting  industry;  but 
after  the  prices  are  settled,  suitably  to  the  new  abundance  of 
gold  and  silver,  it  has  no  manner  of  influence. 

An  effect  always  holds  proportion  with  its  cause.  Prices  have 
risen  near  four  times  since  the  discovery  of  the  Indies,  and  it  is 
probable  gold  and  silver  have  multiplied  much  more;  but  inter- 
est has  not  fallen  much  above  half.  The  rate  of  interest,  there- 
fore, is  not  derived  from  the  quantity  of  the  precious  metals. 

Money  having  chiefly  a  fictitious  value,  the  greater  or  less 
plenty  of  it  is  of  no  consequence,  if  we  consider  a  nation  within 
itself;  and  the  quantity  of  specie,  when  once  fixed,  though  ever 
so  large,  has  no  other  effect  than  to  oblige  every  one  to  tell  out 
a  greater  number  of  those  shining  bits  of  metal,  for  clothes,  fur- 
niture, or  equipage,  without  increasing  any  one  convenience  of 
life.  If  a  man  borrow  money  to  build  a  house,  he  then  carries 
home  a  greater  load;  because  the  stone,  timber,  lead,  glass,  etc., 
with  the  labor  of  the  masons  and  carpenters,  are  represented  by 
a  greater  quantity  of  gold  and  silver.  But  as  these  metals  are 
considered  chiefly  as  representations,  there  can  no  alteration  arise, 
from  their  bulk  or  quantity,  their  weight  or  color,  either  upon 
their  real  value  or  their  interest.  The  same  interest,  in  all  cases, 
bears  the  same  proportion  to  the  sum.  And  if  you  lent  me  so 
much  labor  and  so  many  commodities;  by  receiving  five  per  cent, 
you  always  receive  proportional  labor  and  commodities,  however 
represented,  whether  by  yellow  or  white  coin,  whether  by  a  pound 
or  an  ounce.  It  is  in  vain,  therefore,  to  look  .for  the  cause  of 
the  fall  or  rise  of  interest  in  the  greater  or  less  quantity  of  gold 
and  silver,  which  is  fixed  in  any  nation. 

High  interest  arises  from  three  circumstances:  a  great  demand 
for  borrowing;  little  riches  to  supply  that  demand;  and  great 
profits  arising  from  commerce:  and  the  circumstances  are  a  clear 
proof  of  the  small  advance  of  commerce  and  industry,  not  of  the 
scarcity  of  gold  and  silver.  Low  interest,  on  the  other  hand,  pro- 
ceeds from  the  three  opposite  circumstances:  a  small  demand  for 
borrowing;  great  riches  to  supply  that  demand;  and  small  profits 
arising  from  commerce, —  and  these  circumstances  are  aill  connected 
together,  and  proceed  from  the  increase  of  industry  and  com- 
merce  not  of  gold  and  silver. 

From  his  « Essays.* 


.  .    ^jrice  of 

tie  more  than 

nges,  the  aug- 

industry;    btit 

■    abundance  of 

^  iusir.     Prices  have 

e  Indies,  and  it  is 

h  more;  but  inter- 

of  interest,  there- 

rccious  metals. 

or  less 

,    within 

-h  ever 

V    r  V  one  to  tell  out 

■    :  .ctal,  for  ck'thes,  fur- 

PETRARCH'S  FIRST  MEETING'^WMH-oimt^RA^  ^^ 

b.^'jse,  he  then  carries 
After  the  Painting  by,F.  ^<f^¥j^.  lead,  glass,  etc., 

■       :  ■  represented  by 

r  ese  metals  are 

rjo  alteration  arise, 

'  >r,  either  upon 

St,  in  all  cases, 

!t  you   lent   me  so 

iving  five  per  cent. 

nmodities,  however 

whether  by  a  pound 

k  .for  the  cause  of 

^ss  qiiantity  of  gold 

cat  demand 
and    great 
istances  are  a  clear 
, ,  not  of  the 
r  hand,  pro- 
nail  demand  for 


d   com- 
Proiri  his 


2269 


LEIGH    HUNT 

(1784-1859) 

^EiGH  Hunt  was  a  genius  when  he  wrote  <'  Abou  Ben  Adhem  ^> 
if  never  before  or  afterwards,  but  he  was  always  a  man  of 
talent  and  an  agreeable  writer  both  of  prose  and  verse. 
His  "  Italian  Poets,  >>  while  not  profoundly  critical,  is  very  useful  as  an 
introduction  to  the  best  Italian  literature,  and  the  brief  essays  of  his 
**  Table-Talk  *^  are  in  every  respect  so  commendable  that  all  sorts 
and  conditions  of  readers  thank  him  for  the  prudent  foresight  which 
led  him  to  report  in  writing  what  he  might  have  said  orally  at  table 
had  he  had  a  Boswell  to  slip  behind  the  door  and  make  memo- 
randa of  it  for  posterity.  He  was  born  at  Southgate,  England,  Octo- 
ber 19th,  1784,  and  he  lived  to  the  ripe  age  of  seventy-five,  dying 
August  28th,  1859.  The  chief  incident  of  his  life  was  his  two-years' 
imprisonment  for  writing  disrespectfully  of  the  Prince  Regent  in  the 
Examiner,  but  the  "  exquisite  taste  ^^  in  which  he  furnished  his  cell 
did  not  tend  to  establish  his  position  as  a  martyr.  He  was  the  asso- 
ciate of  two  generations  of  famous  literary  men.  Byron  patronized 
him.  and  he  wrote  "Recollections  of  Byron, *^  which  was  received  with 
marked  disfavor  by  the  poet's  friends  and  without  indorsement  by  his 
enemies.  He  wrote  several  plays  and  novels,  but  his  best  work  was 
done  as  a  poet  and  essayist. 


«THE  WITTIEST  OF   ENGLISH   POETS » 

BUTLER  is  the  wittiest  of  English  poets,  and  at  the  same  time 
he  is  one  of  the  most  learned,  and,  what  is  more,  one  of  the 
wisest.  His  "  Hudibras,  **  though  naturally  the  most  popu- 
lar of  his  works  from  its  size,  subject,  and  witty  excess,  was  an 
accident  of  birth  and  party  compared  with  his  "  Miscellaneous  Po- 
ems"; yet  both  abound  in  thoughts  as  great  and  deep  as  the  sur- 
face is  sparkling;  and  his  genius  altogether,  having  the  additional 
recommendation  of  verse,  might  have  given  him  a  fame  greater 
than^  Rabelais,  had  his  animal  spirits  been  equal  to  the  rest  of 
his  qualifications  for  a  universalist.     At  the  same  time,  though  not 


2270  LEIGH  HUNT 

abounding  in  poetic  sensibility,  he  was  not  without  it.  He  is  au- 
thor of  the  touching  simile, — 

«  True  as  the  dial  to  the  sun, 
Although  it  be  not  shin'd  upon.* 

The  following  is  as  elegant  as  anything  in  Lovelace  or  Wal- 
ler:— 

**  —  What  security's  too  strong 
To  guard  that  gentle  heart  from  wrong 
That  to  its  friend  is  glad  to  pass 
Itself  away,  and  all  it  has, 
And,  like  an  anchorite,  gives  over 
This  world  for  the  heaven  of  a  lover!* 

And  this,  if  read  with  the  seriousness  and  singleness  of  feeling 
that  become  it,  is,  I  think,  a  comparison  full  of  as  much  grandeur 
as  cordiality. — 

"  Like  Indian  widows,  gone  to  bed. 
In  flaming  curtains  to  the  dead.* 

You  would  sooner  have  looked  for  it  in  one  of  Marvel's  poems 
than  in  "  Hudibras.* 

Butler  has  little  humor.  His  two  heroes,  Hudibras  and  Ralph, 
are  not  so  much  humorists  as  pedants.  They  are  as  little  like 
their  prototypes,  Don  Quixote  and  Sancho,  as  two  dreary  puppets 
are  unlike  excesses  of  humanity.  They  are  not  even  consistent 
with  their  other  prototypes,  the  Puritans,  or  with  themselves,  for 
they  are  dull  fellows  unaccountably  gifted  with  the  author's  wit. 
In  this  respect,  and  as  a  narrative,  the  poem  is  a  failure.  No- 
body ever  thinks  of  the  story,  except  to  wonder  at  its  ineiSciency ; 
or  of  Hudibras  himself,  except  as  described  at  his  outset.  He  is 
nothing  but  a  ludicrous  figure.  But  considered  as  a  banter  issu- 
ing from  the  author's  own  lips,  on  the  wrong  side  of  Puritanism, 
and,  indeed,  on  all  the  pedantic  and  hypocritical  abuses  of  human 
reason,  the  whole  production  is  a  marvelous  compound  of  wit, 
learning,  and  felicitous  execution.  The  wit  is  pure  and  inces- 
sant; the  learning  as  quaint  and  out  of  the  way  as  the  subject; 
the  very  rhymes  are  echoing  scourges,  made  of  the  peremptory 
and  the  incongruous.  This  is  one  of  the  reasons  why  the  rhymes 
have  been  so  much  admired.  They  are  laughable,  not  merely 
in  themselves,  but  from  the  masterly  will  and  violence  with  which 
they  are  made   to  correspond   to  the  absurdities   they  lash.     The 


LEIGH   HUNT  2271 

most  extraordinary  license  is  assumed  as  a  matter  of  course;  the 
accentuation  jerked  out  of  its  place  with  all  the  indifiEerence  and 
effrontery  of  a  reason  "  sufficing  unto  itself. "  The  poem  is  so 
peculiar  in  this  respect,  the  laughing  delight  of  the  reader  so  well 
founded,  and  the  passages  so  sure  to  be  accompanied  with  a  full 
measure  of  wit  and  knowledge,  that  I  have  retained  its  best 
rhymes  throughout,  and  thus  brought  them  together  for  the  first 
time, 

Butler,  like  the  great  wit  of  the  opposite  party,  Marvel,  was  an 
honest  man,  fonder  of  his  books  than  of  worldly  success,  and 
superior  to  party  itself  in  regard  to  final  principles.  He  wrote  a 
satire  on  the  follies  and  vices  of  the  court,  which  is  most  likely 
the  reason  why  it  is  doubted  whether  he  ever  got  anything  by 
<<  Hudibras  " ;  and  he  was  so  little  prejudiced  in  favor  of  the  schol- 
arship he  possessed  that  he  vindicated  the  born  poet  above  the 
poet  of  books,  and  would  not  have  Shakespeare  tried  by  a  Gre- 
cian standard. 

Complete. 


CHARLES   LAMB 


L 


AMB  was  a  humanist,  in  the  most  universal  sense  of  the  term. 
His  imagination  was  not  great,  and  he  also  wanted  sufficient 
heat  and  music  to  render  his  poetry  as  good  as  his  prose; 
but  as  a  prose  writer,  and  within  the  wide  circuit  of  humanity, 
no  man  ever  took  a  more  complete  range  than  he.  He  had  felt, 
thought,  and  suffered  so  much,  that  he  literally  had  intolerance 
for  nothing;  and  he  never  seemed  to  have  it,  but  when  he  sup- 
posed the  sympathies  of  men,  who  might  have  known  better,  to 
be  imperfect.  He  was  a  wit  and  an  observer  of  the  first  order, 
as  far  as  the  world  around  him  was  concerned,  and  society  in  its 
existing  state;  for,  as  to  anything  theoretical  or  transcendental,  no 
man  ever  had  less  care  for  it,  or  less  power.  To  take  him  out 
of  habit  and  convention,  however  tolerant  he  was  to  those  who 
could  speculate  beyond  them,  was  to  put  him  into  an  exhausted 
receiver,  or  to  send  him  naked,  shivering,  and  driven  to  shatters, 
through  the  regions  of  space  and  time.  He  was  only  at  his  ease 
in  the  old  arms  of  humanity;  and  humanity  loved  and  comforted 
him  like  one  of  its  wisest  though  weakest  children.  His  life  had 
experienced  great  and  peculiar  sorrows;  but  he  kept  up  a  balance 
between  those  and  his  consolations,  by  the  goodness  of  his  heart, 


22  72  LEIGH  HUNT 

and  the  ever-willing  sociality  of  his  humor;  though,  now  and 
then,  as  if  he  would  cram  into  one  moment  the  spleen  of  years, 
he  would  throw  out  a  startling  and  morbid  subject  for  reflection, — 
perhaps  in  no  better  shape  than  a  pun,  for  he  was  a  great  pun- 
ster. It  was  a  levity  that  relieved  the  gravity  of  his  thoughts 
and  kept  them  from  falling  too  heavily  earthward. 

Lamb  was  under  the  middle  size,  and  of  fragile  make,  but 
with  a  head  as  fine  as  if  it  had  been  carved  on  purpose.  He 
had  a  very  weak  stomach.  Three  glasses  of  wine  would  put  him 
in  as  lively  a  condition  as  can  only  be  wrought  in  some  men  by 
as  many  bottles, —  which  subjected  him  to  mistakes  on  the  part  of 
the  inconsiderate. 

Lamb's  essays,  especially  those  collected  under  the  signature 
of  '*  Elia,^'  will  take  their  place  among  the  daintiest  productions  of 
English  wit-melancholy, — an  amiable  melancholy  being  the  ground- 
work of  them,  and  serving  to  throw  out  their  delicate  flowers  of 
wit  and  character  with  the  greater  nicety.  Nor  will  they  be  liked 
the  less  for  a  sprinkle  of  old  language,  which  was  natural  in  him 
by  reason  of  his  great  love  of  the  old  English  writers.  Shakes- 
peare himself  might  have  read  them,  and  Hamlet  have  quoted 
them. 

Complete.     From  «Table-Talk.» 


LIGHT  AND  COLOR 

LIGHT  is,  perhaps,  the  most  wonderful  of  all  visible  things; 
that  is  to  say,  it  has  the  least  analogy  to  other  bodies,  and 
is  the  least  subject  to  secondary  explanations.  No  object 
of  sight  equals  it  in  tenuity,  in  velocity,  in  beauty,  in  remote- 
ness of  origin,  and  closeness  of  approach.  It  has  ^^  no  respect  of 
persons.*^  Its  beneficence  is  most  impartial.  It  shines  equally 
on  the  jewels  of  an  Eastern  prince  and  on  the  dust  in  the  cor- 
ner of  a  warehouse.  Its  delicacy,  its  power,  its  utility,  its  uni- 
versality, its  lovely  essence,  visible  and  yet  intangible,  make  up 
something  godlike  to  our  imaginations;  and,  though  we  acknowl- 
edge divinities  more  divine,  we  feel  that  ignorant  as  well  as  wise 
fault  may  be  found  with  those  who  have  made  it  an  object  of 
worship. 

One  of  the  most  curious  things  with  regard  to  light  is,  that  it 
is  a  body,  by  means  of  which  we   become   sensible  of  the   exist- 


LEIGH   PIUNT  2273 

ence  of  other  bodies.  It  is  a  substance;  it  exists  as  much  in 
the  space  between  our  eyes  and  the  object  it  makes  known  to  us 
as  it  does  in  any  other  instance;  and  yet  we  are  made  sensible 
of  that  object  by  means  of  the  very  substance  intervening.  When 
our  inquiries  are  stopped  by  perplexities  of  this  kind,  no  wonder 
that  some  awe-stricken  philosophers  have  thought  further  inquiry 
forbidden;  and  that  others  have  concluded,  with  Berkeley,  that 
there  is  no  such  thing  as  substance  but  in  idea,  and  that  the 
phenomena  of  creation  exist  but  by  the  will  of  the  Great  Mind, 
which  permits  certain  apparent  causes  and  solutions  to  take  place, 
and  to  act  in  a  uniform  manner.  Milton  doubts  whether  he  ought 
to  say  what  he  felt  concerning  light :  — 

<<  Hail,  holy  Light,  offspring  of  Heaven  first-born, 
Or  of  the  eternal  co-eternal  beam. 
May  I  express  thee  unblaraed  ?  since  God  is  light. 
And  never  but  in  an  unapproached  light 
Dwelt  from  eternity,  dwelt  there  in  thee. 
Bright  effluence  of  bright  essence  increate.'* 

And  then  he  makes  that  pathetic  complaint,  during  which  we 
imagine  him  sitting  with  his  blind  eyes  in  the  sun,  feeling  its 
warmth  upon  their  lids,  while  he  could  see  nothing:  — 

" Thee  I  revisit  safe. 

And  feel  thy  sovran  vital  lamp ;  but  thou 
Revisit'st  not  these  eyes,  that  roll  in  vain 
To  find  thy  piercing  ray,  and  find  no  dawn.'* 

As  color  is  imparted  solely  by  the  different  rays  of  light  with 

which  they  are  acted    upon,    the  sun    literally  paints    the    flowers. 

The    hues  of  the    pink  and  rose  literally  come,  every  day,   direct 

from  heaven. 

Complete.     From  «  Table-Talk. » 


PETRARCH    AND    LAURA 

THKRF.  is  plenty  of  evidence  in  her  lover's  poetry  to  show  that 
Laura  portioned  out  the  shade  and  sunshine  of   her  counte- 
nance  in  a  manner   that    had    the   instinctive    effect  of   arti- 
fice, though  we  do  not  believe  there  was  any  intention  to  practice 
it.   -  And    this   is  a  reasonable    conclusion,   warranted    by  the    ex- 
perience of   the  world.     It   is   not   necessary  to  suppose  Laura  a 
Ti— 143 


2274  LEIGH   HUNT 

perfect  character,  in  order  to  excite  the  love  of  so  imaginative 
a  heart  as  Petrarch's.  A  good  half  or  two-thirds  of  the  love 
may  have  been  assignable  to  the  imagination.  Part  of  it  was 
avowedly  attributable  to  the  extraordinary  fidelity  with  which 
she  kept  her  marriage  vow  to  a  disagreeable  husband,  in  a  city 
so  licentious  as  Avignon,  and,  therefore,  partook  of  that  not  very 
complimentary  astonishment  and  that  willingness  to  be  at  an  un- 
usual disadvantage,  which  make  chastity  cut  so  remarkable  a  fig- 
ure amid  the  rakeries  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher.  Furthermore, 
Laura  may  not  have  understood  the  etherealities  of  Petrarch. 
It  is  possible  that  less  homage  might  have  had  a  greater  effect 
upon  her;  and  it  is  highly  probable  (as  Petrarch,  though  he 
speaks  well  of  her  natural  talents,  says  she  had  not  been  well 
educated)  that  she  had  that  instinctive  misgiving  of  the  fine 
qualities  attributed  to  her,  which  is  produced  even  in  the  vainest 
of  women  by  flights  to  which  they  are  unaccustomed.  It  makes 
them  resent  their  incompetency  upon  the  lover  who  thus  strangely 
reminds  them  of  it.  Most  women,  however,  would  naturally  be 
unwilling  to  lose  such  an  admirer,  especially  as  they  found  the 
admiration  of  him  extend  in  the  world;  and  Laura  is  described 
by  her  lover  as  manifestly  affected  by  it.  Upon  the  whole,  I 
should  guess  her  to  have  been  a  very  beautiful,  well-meaning, 
woman,  far  from  insensible  to  public  homage  of  any  sort  (she 
was  a  splendid  dresser,  for  instance),  and  neither  so  wise  nor  so 
foolish  as  to  make  her  seriously  responsible  for  any  little  coquet- 
ries she  practiced,  or  wanting  in  sufficient  address  to  practice 
them  well.  Her  history  is  a  lofty  comment  upon  the  line  in 
*The  Beggar's  Opera  ^*:  — 

«By  keeping  men  off,  you  keep  them  on.» 

As  to  the  sonnets  with  which  this  great  man  immortalized  his 
love,  and  which  are  full  of  the  most  wonderful  beauties,  small 
and  great  (the  versification  being  surprisingly  various  and  charm- 
ing, and  the  conceits  of  which  they  have  been  accused  being  for 
the  most  part  as  natural  and  delightful  as  anything  in  them, 
from  a  propensity  which  a  real  lover  has  to  associate  his  mistress 
with  everything  he  sees),  justice  has  been  done  to  their  gentler 
beauties,  but  not,  I  think  to  their  intensity  and  passion.  Romeo 
should  have  written  a  criticism  on  Petrarch's  sonnets.  He  would 
have   done   justice   both    to   their  « conceits  *>  and  their  fervor.     I 


LEIGH  HUNT 


2275 


think  it  is  Ugo  Foscolo  who  remarks  that  Petrarch  has  given  evi- 
dence of  passion  felt  in  solitude,  amounting  even  to  the  terrible. 
His  temperament  partook  of  that  morbid  cast  which  makes  peo- 
ple haunted  by  their  ideas,  and  which,  in  men  of  genius,  subjects 
them  sometimes  to  a  kind  of  delirium  of  feeling,  without  destroy- 
ing the  truth  of  their  perceptions.  Petrarch  more  than  once  rep- 
resents himself  in  these  sonnets  as  struggling  with  a  propensity 
to  suicide;  nor  do  we  know  anything  more  affecting  in  the  rec- 
ord of  a  man's  struggles  with  unhappiness  than  the  one  contain- 
ing a  prayer  of  humiliation  to  God  on  account  of  his  passion, 
beginning:  — 

"  Padre  del  del,  dopo  i  perduti  giorni  **  — 

<*  Father  of  heaven,  after  the  lost  days.'^ 

The  commentators  tell  us  that  it  was  written  on  a  Good  Fri- 
day, exactly  eleven  years  from  the  commencement  of  his  love. 

Complete.     From  «  Table-Talk. » 


MORAL  AND  PERSONAL  COURAGE 

IN  ALL  moral  courage  there  is  a  degree  of  personal;  personal  is 
sometimes  totally  deficient  in  moral.  The  reason  is  that  moral 
courage  is  a  result  of  the  intellectual  perceptions  and  of  con- 
science, whereas  a  man  totally  deficient  in  those  may  have  nerves 
or  gall  enough  to  face  any  danger  which  his  body  feels  itself 
competent  to  oppose.  When  the  physically  courageous  man  comes 
into  the  region  of  mind  and  speculation,  or  when  the  question  is 
purely  one  of  right  or  wrong,  he  is  apt  to  feel  himself  in  the 
condition  of  the  sailor  who  confessed  that  he  was  afraid  of  ghosts, 
because  he  "did  not  understand  their  tackle.'*  When  moral  cour- 
age feels  that  it  is  in  the  right,  there  is  no  personal  daring  of 
which  it  is  incapable. 

Complete.     From  «  Table-Talk. » 


2276 


THOMAS   HENRY  HUXLEY 

(1825-1895) 

Ihomas  Henry  Huxley  was  born  in  Ealing,  England,  May  4th, 
1825,  Educated  at  Ealing  School  and  at  Charing  Cross  Hos- 
pital in  London,  he  spent  the  first  four  years  of  his  profes- 
sional life  (1846-50)  as  assistant  surgeon  on  an  English  man-of-war. 
In  1855  he  became  Fullerian  professor  of  Physiology  at  the  Royal 
Institution,  and  it  was  as  a  physiologist  and  biologist  that  he  achieved 
his  greatest  successes.  He  was  a  pupil  of  Darwin,  and  he  had  what 
Darwin  wholly  lacked  —  a  combative  disposition  and  a  keen  enjoy- 
ment of  controversy.  He  seldom  found  an  opponent  intellectually 
able  to  cope  with  him,  even  when  he  was  wrong;  and  as  he  was  fre- 
quently right,  he  won  many  controversial  victories  which  seemed  to 
give  him  a  high  degree  of  satisfaction.  But  if  he  owed  much  of  his 
reputation  with  his  contemporaries  to  the  public's  love  of  intellectual 
prize-fighting,  his  permanent  reputation  rests  on  a  long  list  of  es- 
says and  studies  as  a  biologist  and  physiologist.  Among  the  most 
popular  of  these  are  ^*  Science  and  Culture,'^  "Lay  Sermons,**  and 
®  Evolution  and  Ethics.**  He  died  June  29th,  1895.  His  essay  <*  On 
the  Method  of  Zadig**  stands  at  the  head  of  its  class,  unsurpassed 
among  the  popular  scientific  essays  of  the  century. 


ON   THE   METHOD   OF  ZADIG 
(« Retrospective  Prophecy  as  a  Function  of  Science**) 

IT  IS  a  usual  and  commendable  practice  to  preface  the  discus- 
sion of  the  views  of  a   philosophic  thinker   by  some   account 

of  the  man  and  of  the  circumstances  which  shaped  his  life 
and  colored  his  way  of  looking  at  things;  but,  though  Zadig  is 
cited  in  one  of  the  most  important  chapters  of  Cuvier's  greatest 
work,  little  is  known  about  him,  and  that  little  might  perhaps  be 
better  authenticated  than  it  is. 

It  is  said  that  he  lived  at  Babylon  in  the  time  of  King  Moab- 
dar,  but  the  name  of  Moabdar  does  not  appear  in  the  list  of 
Babylonian  sovereigns   brought   to  light  by  the  patience  and  the 


THOMAS  HENRY  HUXLEY  2277 

industry  of  the  decipherers  of  cuneiform  inscriptions  in  these 
later  years;  nor,  indeed,  am  I  aware  that  there  is  any  other  au- 
thority for  his  existence  than  that  of  the  biographer  of  Zadig,  one 
Arouet  de  Voltaire,  among  whose  more  conspicuous  merits  strict 
historical  accuracy  is  perhaps  hardly  to  be  reckoned. 

Happily  Zadig  is  in  the  position  of  a  great  many  other  phi- 
losophers. What  he  was  like  when  he  was  in  the  flesh,  indeed 
whether  he  existed  at  all,  are  matters  of  no  great  consequence. 
What  we  care  about  in  a  light  is  that  it  shows  the  way,  not 
whether  it  is  lamp  or  candle,  tallow  or  wax.  Our  only  real  in- 
terest in  Zadig  lies  in  the  conceptions  of  which  he  is  the  puta- 
tive father;  and  his  biographer  has  stated  these  with  so  much 
clearness  and  vivacious  illustration  that  we  need  hardly  feel  a 
pang,  even  if  critical  research  should  prove  King  Moabdar  and 
all  the  rest  of  the  story  to  be  unhistorical,  and  reduce  Zadig  him- 
self to  the  shadowy  condition  of  a  solar  myth. 

Voltaire  tells  us  that,  disenchanted  with  life  by  sundry  do- 
mestic misadventures,  Zadig  withdrew  from  the  turmoil  of  Baby- 
lon to  a  secluded  retreat  on  the  banks  of  the  Euphrates,  where 
he  beguiled  his  solitude  by  the  study  of  nature.  The  manifold 
wonders  of  the  world  of  life  had  a  particular  attraction  for  the 
lonely  student;  incessant  and  patient  observation  of  the  plants 
and  animals  about  him  sharpened  his  naturally  good  powers  of 
observation  and  of  reasoning;  until,  at  length,  he  acquired  a  sa- 
gacity which  enabled  him  to  perceive  endless  minute  differences 
among  objects  which,  to  the  untutored  eye,  appeared  absolutely 
alike. 

It  might  have  been  expected  that  this  enlargement  of  the  pow- 
ers of  the  mind  and  of  its  store  of  natural  knowledge  could  tend 
to  nothing  but  the  increase  of  a  man's  own  welfare  and  the  good 
of  his  fellowmen.  But  Zadig  was  fated  to  experience  the  vanity 
of  such  expectations. 

*'One  day,  walking  near  a  little  wood,  he  saw,  hastening  that 
way,  one  of  the  queen's  chief  eunuchs,  followed  by  a  troop  of 
officials,  who  appeared  to  be  in  the  greatest  anxiety,  running  hither 
and  thither  like  men  distraught   in   search   of  some  lost   treasure. 

"'Young  man,*  cried  the  eunuch,  'have  you  seen  the  queen's 
dog?*  Zadig  answered  modestly,  'A  bitch,  I  think,  not  a  dog.' 
'Quito  right,*  replied  the  eunuch;  and  Zadig  continued,  *A  very 
small  spaniel  who  has  lately  had  puppies;  she  limps  with  the  left 


2278  THOMAS  HENRY  HUXLEY 

foreleg,  and  has  very  long  ears.  *  *  Ah,  you  have  seen  her  then !  * 
said  the  breathless  eunuch.  *  No, '  answered  Zadig,  *I  have  not 
seen  her,  and  I  really  was  not  aware  that  the  queen  possessed  a 
spaniel.  ^ 

«  By  an  odd  coincidence,  at  the  very  same  time,  the  handsomest 
horse  in  the  king's  stables  broke  away  from  his  groom  in  the 
Babylonian  plains.  The  grand  huntsman  and  all  his  staff  were 
seeking  the  horse  with  as  much  anxiety  as  the  eunuch  and  his 
people  the  spaniel,  and  the  grand  huntsman  asked  Zadig  if  he 
had  not  seen  the  king's  horse  go  that  way. 

"*  A  first-rate  galloper,  small-hoofed,  five  feet  high;  tail  three 
feet  and  a  half  long;  cheek  pieces  of  the  bit  of  twenty-three 
carat  gold,  shoes  silver  ?  *  said  Zadig. 

"  ^  Which  way  did  he  go  ?  Where  is  he  ?  *  cried  the  grand 
huntsman. 

"  ^  I  have  not  seen  anything  of  the  horse,  and  I  never  heard 
of  him  before,^  replied  Zadig. 

"  The  grand  huntsman  and  the  chief  eunuch  made  sure  that 
Zadig  had  stolen  both  the  king's  horse  and  the  queen's  spaniel, 
so  they  haled  him  before  the  High  Court  of  Desterham,  which 
at  once  condemned  him  to  the  knout  and  transportation  for  life 
to  Siberia.  But  the  sentence  was  hardly  pronounced  when  the 
lost  horse  and  spaniel  were  found.  So  the  judges  were  under 
the  painful  necessity  of  reconsidering  their  decision;  but  they  fined 
Zadig  four  hundred  ounces  of  gold  for  saying  he  had  seen  that 
which  he  had  not  seen. 

^*  The  first  thing  was  to  pay  the  fine ;  afterward  Zadig  was 
permitted  to  open  his  defense  to  the  court,  which  he  did  in  the 
following  terms:  — 

*^  ^  Stars  of  justice,  abysses  of  knowledge,  mirrors  of  truth, 
whose  gravity  is  as  that  of  lead,  whose  inflexibility  is  as  that  of 
iron,  who  rival  the  diamond  in  clearness,  and  possess  no  little 
afiinity  with  gold;  since  I  am  permitted  to  address  your  august 
assembly,  I  swear  by  Ormuzd  that  I  have  never  seen  the  respect- 
able lady  dog  of  the  queen,  nor  beheld  the  sacrosanct  horse  of 
the  king  of  kings. 

"^This  is  what  happened.  I  was  taking  a  walk  toward  the 
little  wood  near  which  I  subsequently  had  the  honor  to  meet  the 
venerable  chief  eunuch  and  the  most  illustrious  grand  huntsman. 
I  noticed  the  track  of  an  animal  in  the  sand,  and  it  was  easy  to 
see  that  it  was  that  of  a  small  dog.      Long   faint    streaks   upon 


THOMAS  HENRY  HUXLEY  2279 

the  little  elevations  of  sand  between  the  footmarks  convinced  me 
that  it  was  a  she  dog  with  pendent  dugs  —  showing  that  she  must 
have  had  puppies  not  many  days  since.  Other  scrapings  of  the 
sand,  which  always  lay  close  to  the  marks  of  the  forepaws,  indi- 
cated that  she  had  very  long  ears;  and  as  the  imprint  of  one 
foot  was  always  fainter  than  those  of  the  other  three,  I  judged 
that  the  lady  dog  of  our  august  queen  was,  if  I  may  venture  to 
say  so,  a  little  lame. 

^*  ^  With  respect  to  the  horse  of  the  king  of  kings,  permit  me 
to  observe  that,  wandering  through  the  paths  which  traverse  the 
wood,  I  noticed  the  marks  of  horseshoes.  They  were  all  equidis- 
tant. "Ah !  *^  said  I,  "  this  is  a  famous  galloper. "  In  a  narrow 
alley,  only  seven  feet  wide,  the  dust  upon  the  trunks  of  the  trees 
was  a  little  disturbed  at  three  feet  and  a  half  from  the  middle 
of  the  path.  "This  horse, '^  said  I  to  myself,  "had  a  tail  three 
feet  and  a  half  long,  and,  lashing  it  from  one  side  to  the  other, 
he  has  swept  away  the  dust.**  Branches  of  the  trees  met  over- 
head at  the  height  of  five  feet,  and  under  them  I  saw  newly 
fallen  leaves;  so  I  knew  that  the  horse  had  brushed  some  of  the 
branches,  and  was  therefore  five  feet  high.  As  to  his  bit,  it  must 
have  been  made  of  twenty-three  karat  gold,  for  he  had  rubbed  it 
against  a  stone,  which  turned  out  to  be  a  touchstone,  with  the 
properties  of  which  I  am  familiar  by  experiment.  Lastly,  by  the 
marks  which  his  shoes  left  upon  pebbles  of  another  kind,  I  was 
led  to  think  that  his  shoes  were  of  fine  silver.* 

"All  the  judges  admired  Zadig's  profound  and  subtle  discern- 
ment, and  the  fame  of  it  reached  even  the  king  and  the  queen. 
From  the  anterooms  to  the  presence  chamber  Zadig's  name  was 
in  everybody's  mouth;  and  although  many  of  the  magi  were  of 
opinion  that  he  ought  to  be  burned  as  a  sorcerer,  the  king  com- 
manded that  the  four  hundred  ounces  of  gold  which  he  had  been 
fined  should  be  restored  to  him.  So  the  officers  of  the  court 
went  in  state  with  the  four  hundred  ounces, —  only  they  retained 
three  hundred  and  ninety-eight  for  legal  expenses,  and  their  serv- 
ants expected  fees." 

Those  who  are  interested  in  learning  more  of  the  fateful  his- 
tory of  Zadig  must  turn  to  the  original;  we  are  dealing  with  him 
only  as  a  philosopher,  and  this  brief  excerpt  suffices  for  the  ex- 
emplification of  the  nature  of  his  conclusions  and  of  the  method 
by  which  he  arrived  at  them. 


228o  THOMAS  HENRY  HUXLEY 

These  conclusions  may  be  said  to  be  of  the  nature  of  retro- 
spective prophecies;  though  it  is  perhaps  a  little  hazardous  to 
employ  phraseology  which  perilously  suggests  a  contradiction  in 
terms — the  word  ^^ prophecy*^  being  so  constantly  in  ordinary  use 
restricted  to  "  foretelling.  '*  Strictly,  however,  the  term  ^*  prophecy  * 
as  much  applies  to  outspeaking  as  to  foretelling;  and  even  in  the 
restricted  sense  of  **  divination,*  it  is  obvious  that  the  essence  of 
the  prophetic  operation  does  not  lie  in  its  backward  or  forward 
relation  to  the  course  of  time,  but  in  the  fact  that  it  is  the  ap- 
prehension of  that  which  lies  out  of  the  sphere  of  immediate 
knowledge,  the  seeing  of  that  which  to  the  natural  sense  of  the 
seer  is  invisible. 

The  foreteller  asserts  that,  at  some  future  time,  a  properly 
situated  observer  will  witness  certain  events;  the  clairvoyant  de- 
clares that,  at  this  present  time,  certain  things  are  to  be  witnessed 
a  thousand  miles  away;  the  retrospective  prophet  (Would  that 
there  were  such  a  word  as  ^^  backteller  * !)  affirms  that  so  many 
hours  or  years  ago,  such  and  such  things  were  to  be  seen.  In 
all  these  cases  it  is  only  the  relation  to  time  which  alters;  the 
process  of  divination  beyond  the  limits  of  possible  direct  knowl- 
edge remains  the  same. 

No  doubt  it  was  their  instinctive  recognition  of  the  analogy 
between  Zadig's  results  and  those  obtained  by  authorized  inspira- 
tion which  inspired  the  Babylonian  magi  with  the  desire  to  burn 
the  philosopher.  Zadig  admitted  that  he  had  never  either  seen 
or  heard  of  the  horse  of  the  king  or  of  the  spaniel  of  the  queen; 
and  yet  he  ventured  to  assert  in  the  most  positive  manner  that 
animals  answering  to  their  description  did  actually  exist,  and  ran 
about  the  plains  of  Babylon.  If  his  method  was  good  for  the 
divination  of  the  course  of  events  ten  hours  old,  why  should  it 
not  be  good  for  those  of  ten  years  or  ten  centuries  past;  nay, 
might  it  not  extend  to  ten  thousand  years,  and  justify  the  im- 
pious in  meddling  with  the  traditions  of  Cannes  and  the  fish,  and 
all  the  sacred  foundations  of  Babylonian  cosmogony  ? 

But  this  was  not  the  worst.  There  was  another  consideration 
which  obviously  dictated  to  the  more  thoughtful  of  the  magi  the 
propriety  of  burning  Zadig  out  of  hand.  His  defense  was  worse 
than  his  offense.  It  showed  that  his  mode  of  divination  was 
fraught  with  danger  to  magianism  in  general.  Swollen  with  the 
pride  of  human  reason,  he  had  ignored  the  established  canons  of 
magian  lore ;  and,  trusting  to  what,  after  all,  was  mere  carnal  com- 


THOMAS  HENRY  HUXLEY  2281 

mon  sense,  he  professed  to  lead  men  to  a  deeper  insight  into 
nature  than  magian  wisdom,  with  all  its  lofty  antagonism  to  every- 
thing common,  had  ever  reached.  What,  in  fact,  lay  at  the  foun- 
dation of  all  Zadig's  arguments,  but  the  coarse,  commonplace 
assumption,  upon  which  every  act  of  our  daily  lives  is  based,  that 
we  may  conclude  from  an  effect  to  the  pre-existence  of  a  cause 
competent  to  produce  that  effect  ? 

The  tracks  were  exactly  like  those  which  dogs  and  horses 
leave;  therefore  they  were  the  effects  of  such  animals  as  causes. 
The  marks  at  the  sides  of  the  fore  prints  of  the  dog's  track  were 
exactly  such  as  would  be  produced  by  long  trailing  ears;  there- 
fore the  dog's  long  ears  were  the  causes  of  these  marks  —  and 
so  on.  Nothing  can  be  more  hopelessly  vulgar,  more  unlike  the 
majestic  development  of  a  system  of  grandly  unintelligible  con- 
clusions from  sublimely  inconceivable  premises,  such  as  delights 
the  magian  heart.  In  fact,  Zadig's  method  was  nothing  but  the 
method  of  all  mankind.  Retrospective  prophecies,  far  more  aston- 
ishing for  their  minute  accuracy  than  those  of  Zadig,  are  familiar 
to  those  who  have  watched  the  daily  life  of   nomadic  people. 

From  freshly  broken  twigs,  crushed  leaves,  disturbed  pebbles, 
and  imprints  hardly  discernible  by  the  untrained  eye,  such  grad- 
uates in  the  university  of  nature  will  divine,  not  only  the  fact 
that  a  party  has  passed  that  way,  but  its  strength,  its  composi- 
tion, the  course  it  took,  and  the  number  of  hours  or  days  which 
have  elapsed  since  it  passed.  But  they  are  able  to  do  this  be- 
cause, like  Zadig,  they  perceive  endless  minute  differences  where 
untrained  eyes  discern  nothing;  and  because  the  unconscious 
logic  of  common  sense  compels  them  to  account  for  these  effects 
by  the  causes  which  they  know  to  be  competent  to  produce  them. 

And  such  mere  methodized  savagery  was  to  discover  the  hid- 
den things  of  nature  better  than  h  priori  deductions  from  the 
nature  of  Ormuzd  —  perhaps  to  give  a  history  of  the  past,  in 
which  Cannes  would  be  altogether  ignored!  Decidedly  it  were 
better  to  burn  this  man  at  once. 

If  instinct,  or  an  unwonted  use  of  reason,  led  Moabdar's  magi 
to  this  conclusion  two  or  three  thousand  years  ago,  all  that  can 
be  said  is  that  subsequent  history  has  fully  justified  them.  For 
the  rigorous  application  of  Zadig's  logic  to  the  results  of  accurate 
and  long-continued  observation  has  founded  all  those  sciences 
'Which  have  been  termed  historical  or  palaetiological,  because  they 


2282  THOMAS  HENRY  HUXLEY 

are  retrospectively  prophetic  and  strive  toward  the  reconstruction 
in  human  imagination  of  events  which  have  vanished  and  ceased 
to  be. 

History,  in  the  ordinary  acceptation  of  the  word,  is  based  upon 
the  interpretation  of  documentary  evidence ;  and  documents  would 
have  no  evidential  value  unless  historians  were  justified  in  their 
assumption  that  they  have  come  into  existence  by  the  operation 
of  causes  similar  to  those  of  which  documents  are,  in  our  present 
experience,  the  effects.  If  a  written  history  can  be  produced 
otherwise  than  by  human  agency,  or  if  the  man  who  wrote  a 
given  document  was  actuated  by  other  than  ordinary  human  mo- 
tives, such  documents  are  of  no  more  evidential  value  than  so 
many  arabesques. 

Archaeology,  which  takes  up  the  thread  of  history  beyond  the 
point  at  which  documentary  evidence  fails  us,  could  have  no  ex- 
istence, except  for  our  well-grounded  confidence  that  monuments 
and  works  of  art,  or  artifice,  have  never  been  produced  by  causes 
different  in  kind  from  those  to  which  they  now  owe  their  origin. 
And  geology,  which  traces  back  the  course  of  history  beyond  the 
limits  of  archaeology,  could  tell  us  nothing  except  for  the  assump- 
tion that,  millions  of  years  ago,  water,  heat,  gravitation,  friction, 
animal  and  vegetable  life  caused  effects  of  the  same  kind  as  they 
do  now.  Nay,  even  physical  astronomy,  in  so  far  as  it  takes  us 
back  to  the  uttermost  point  of  time  which  palaetiological  science 
can  reach,  is  founded  upon  the  same  assumption.  If  the  law  of 
gravitation  ever  failed  to  be  true,  even  to  the  smallest  extent, 
for  that  period,  the  calculations  of  the  astronomer  have  no  appli- 
cation. 

The  power  of  prediction,  of  prospective  prophecy,  is  that  which 
is  commonly  regarded  as  the  great  prerogative  of  physical  sci- 
ence. And  truly  it  is  a  wonderful  fact  that  one  can  go  into  a 
shop  and  buy  for  small  price  a  book,  the  "Nautical  Almanac,* 
which  will  foretell  the  exact  position  to  be  occupied  by  one  of 
Jupiter's  moons  six  months  hence;  nay  more,  that,  if  it  were 
worth  while,  the  Astronomer  Royal  could  furnish  us  with  as  in- 
fallible a  prediction  applicable  to   1980  or  2980. 

But  astronomy  is  not  less  remarkable  for  its  power  of  retro- 
spective prophecy. 

Thales,  oldest  of  Greek  philosophers,  the  dates  of  whose  birth 
and  death  are  uncertain,  but  who  flourished    about   600  B.  C,  is 


THOMAS  HENRY  HUXLEY  2283 

i:aid  to  have  foretold  an  eclipse  of  the  sun  which  took  place  in 
his  time  during  a  battle  between  the  Medes  and  the  Lydians. 
Sir  George  Airy  has  written  a  very  learned  and  interesting 
memoir  in  which  he  proves  that  such  an  eclipse  was  visible  in 
Lydia  on  the  afternoon  of  the  twenty-eighth  of    May  in  the  year 

585  B.  C. 

No  one  doubts  that,  on  the  day  and  at  the  hour  mentioned  by 
the  Astronomer  Royal,  the  people  of  Asia  Minor  saw  the  face  of 
the  sun  totally  obscured.  But  though  we  implicitly  believe  this 
retrospective  prophecy,  it  is  incapable  of  verification.  It  is  im- 
possible even  to  conceive  any  means  of  ascertaining  directly 
whether  the  eclipse  of  Thales  happened  or  not.  All  that  can  be 
said  is,  that  the  prospective  prophecies  of  the  astronomer  are 
always  verified;  and  that,  inasmuch  as  his  retrospective  proph- 
ecies are  the  result  of  following  backward  the  very  same  method 
as  that  which  invariably  leads  to  verified  results  when  it  is  worked 
forward,  there  is  as  much  reason  for  placing  full  confidence  in 
the  one  as  in  the  other.  Retrospective  prophecy  is  therefore  a 
legitimate  function  of  astronomical  science ;  and  if  it  is  legitimate 
for  one  science  it  is  legitimate  for  all;  the  fundamental  axiom 
on  which  it  rests,  the  constancy  of  the  order  of  nature,  being  the 
common  foundation  of  all  scientific  thought.  Indeed,  if  there  can 
be  grades  in  legitimacy,  certain  branches  of  science  have  the  ad- 
vantage over  astronomy,  in  so  far  as  their  retrospective  proph- 
ecies are  not  only  susceptible  of  verification,  but  are  sometimea^ 
strikingly  verified. 

Such  a  science  exists  in  that  application  of  the  principles  of 
biology  to  the  interpretation  of  the  animal  and  vegetable  remains 
imbedded  in  the  rocks  which  compose  the  surface  of  the  globe, 
which  is  called  palaeontology. 

At  no  very  distant  time  the  question  whether  these  so-called 
« fossils "  were  really  the  remains  of  animals  and  plants  was 
hotly  disputed.  Very  learned  persons  maintained  that  they  were 
nothing  of  the  kind,  but  a  sort  of  concretion  or  crystallization 
which  had  taken  place  within  the  stone  in  which  they  arc  found; 
and  which  simulated  the  forms  of  animal  and  vegetable  life,  just 
as  frost  on  a  window  pane  imitates  vegetation.  At  the  present 
day  it  would  probably  be  impossible  to  find  any  sane  advocate 
of  this  opinion;  and  the  fact  is  rather  surprising  that  among  the 
people  from  whom  the  circle  squarers,  perpetual  motioners,  flat- 
earth   men   and   the    like,  arc   recruited,  to   say   nothing  of   table 


2284  THOMAS  HENRY  HUXLEY 

turners  and  spirit  rappers,  somebody  has  not  perceived  the  easy- 
avenue  to  nonsensical  notoriety  open  to  any  one  who  will  take 
up  the  good  old  doctrine  that  fossils  are  all  lusus  naturcB. 

The  position  would  be  impregnable,  inasmuch  as  it  is  quite 
impossible  to  prove  the  contrary.  If  a  man  choose  to  maintain 
that  a  fossil  oyster  shell,  in  spite  of  its  correspondence,  down  to 
every  minutest  particular,  with  that  of  an  oyster  fresh  taken  out 
of  the  sea,  was  never  tenanted  by  a  living  oyster,  but  is  a  min- 
eral concretion,  there  is  no  demonstrating  his  error.  All  that 
can  be  done  is  to  show  him  that,  by  a  parity  of  reasoning,  he  is 
bound  to  admit  that  a  heap  of  oyster  shells  outside  a  fishmonger's 
door  may  also  be  "  sports  of  nature,  '*  and  that  a  mutton  bone  in 
a  dust  bin  may  have  had  the  like  origin.  And  when  you  cannot 
prove  that  people  are  wrong,  but  only  that  they  are  absurd,  the 
best  course  is  to  let  them  alone. 

The  whole  fabric  of  palaeontology,  in  fact,  falls  to  the  ground 
unless  we  admit  the  validity  of  Zadig's  great  principle,  that  like 
effects  imply  like  causes;  and  that  the  process  of  reasoning  from 
a  shell,  or  a  tooth,  or  a  bone,  to  the  nature  of  the  animal  to  which 
it  belonged,  rests  absolutely  on  the  assumption  that  the  likeness 
of  this  shell,  or  tooth,  or  bone  to  that  of  some  animal  with  which 
we  are  already  acquainted,  is  such  that  we  are  justified  in  infer- 
ring a  corresponding  degree  of  likeness  in  the  rest  of  the  two 
organisms.  It  is  on  this  very  simple  principle,  and  not  upon 
imaginary  laws  of  physiological  correlation,  about  which,  in  most 
cases,  we  know  nothing  whatever,  that  the  so-called  restorations 
of  the  palaeontologist  are  based. 

Abundant  illustrations  of  this  truth  will  occur  to  every  one 
who  is  familiar  with  palaeontology;  none  is  more  suitable  than 
the  case  of  the  so-called  belemnites.  In  the  early  days  of  the 
study  of  fossils,  this  name  was  given  to  certain  elongated  stony 
bodies,  ending  at  one  extremity  in  a  conical  point,  and  truncated 
at  the  other,  which  were  commonly  reputed  to  be  thunderbolts, 
and  as  such  to  have  descended  from  the  sky.  They  are  com- 
mon enough  in  some  parts  of  England;  and,  in  the  condition 
in  which  they  are  ordinarily  found,  it  might  be  difficult  to  give 
satisfactory  reasons  for  denying  them  to  be  merely  mineral 
bodies. 

They  appear,  in  fact,  to  consist  of  nothing  but ,  concentric 
layers  of  carbonate  of  lime,  disposed  in  subcrystalline  fibres,  or 
prisms,  perpendicular  to  the  layers.      Among  a  great   number  of 


THOMAS  HENRY  HUXLEY  2285 

specimens  of  these  belemnites,  however,  it  was  soon  observed 
that  some  showed  a  conical  cavity  at  the  blunt  end;  and  in  still 
better  preserved  specimens  this  cavity  appeared  to  be  divided 
into  chambers  by  delicate  saucer-shaped  partitions,  situated  at 
regular  intervals  one  above  the  other.  Now  there  is  no  mineral 
body  which  presents  any  structure  comparable  to  this,  and  the 
conclusion  suggested  itself  that  the  belemnites  must  be  the  ef- 
fects of  causes  other  than  those  which  are  at  work  in  inorganic 
nature.  On  close  examination,  the  saucer-shaped  partitions  were 
proved  to  be  all  perforated  at  one  point,  and  the  perforations 
being  situated  exactly  in  the  same  line,  the  chambers  were  seen 
to  be  traversed  by  a  canal,  or  siphuncle,  which  thus  connected 
the  smallest  or  apical  chamber  with  the  largest.  There  is  noth- 
ing like  this  in  the  vegetable  world;  but  an  exactly  correspond- 
ing structure  is  met  with  in  the  shells  of  two  kinds  of  existing 
^  animals,  the  pearly  nautilus  and  the  spirula,  and  only  in  them. 
These  animals  belong  to  the  same  division  —  the  cephalopoda  — 
as  the  cuttlefish,  the  squid,  and  the  octopus.  But  they  are  the 
only  existing  members  of  the  group  which  possess  chambered, 
siphunculated  shells;  and  it  is  utterly  impossible  to  trace  any 
physiological  connection  between  the  very  peculiar  structural 
characters  of  a  cephalopod  and  the  presence  of  a  chambered 
shell.  In  fact,  the  squid  has,  instead  of  any  such  shell,  a  horny 
®  pen  "  ;  the  cuttlefish  has  the  so-called  "  cuttle  bone  " ;  and  the 
octopus  has  no  shell  at  all,  or  a  mere  rudiment  of  one. 

Nevertheless,  seeing  that  there  is  nothing  in  nature  at  all  like 
the  chambered  shell  of  the  belemnite,  except  the  shells  of  the 
nautilus  and  of  the  spirula,  it  was  legitimate  to  prophesy  that 
the  animal  from  which  the  fossil  proceeded  must  have  belonged 
to  the  group  of  the  cephalopoda.  Nautilus  and  spirula  are  both 
very  rare  animals,  but  the  progress  of  investigation  brought  to 
light  the  singular  fact  that,  though  each  has  the  characteristic 
cephalopodous  organization,  it  is  very  different  from  the  other. 
The  shell  of  nautilus  is  external,  that  of  spirula  internal;  nau- 
tilus has  four  gills,  spirula  two;  nautilus  has  multitudinous  ten- 
tacles, spirula  has  only  ten  arms  beset  with  horny  rimmed 
suckers;  spirula,  like  the  squids  and  cuttlefishes,  which  it  closely 
resembles,  has  a  bag  of  ink  which  it  squirts  out  to  cover  its 
retreat  when  alarmed;    nautilus  has  none. 

No  amount  of  physiological  reasoning  could  enable  any  one 
to  say  whether   the   animal  which    fabricated   the   belemnite    was 


2286  THOMAS  HENRY  HUXLEY 

more  like  nautilus  or  more  like  spirula.  But  the  accidental  dis- 
covery of  belemnites  in  due  connection  with  black  elongated 
masses  which  were  certainly  fossilized  ink  bags,  inasmuch  as  the 
ink  could  be  ground  up  and  used  for  painting  as  well  as  if  it 
were  recent  sepia,  settled  the  question;  and  it  became  perfectly 
safe  to  prophesy  that  the  creature  which  fabricated  the  belemnite 
was  a  two-gilled  cephalopod  with  suckers  on  its  arms,  and  with 
all  the  other  essential  features  of  our  living  squids,  cuttlefishes, 
and  spirulas.  The  palaeontologist  was,  by  this  time,  able  to  speak 
as  confidently  about  the  animal  of  the  belemnite  as  Zadig  was 
respecting  the  queen's  spaniel.  He  could  give  a  very  fair  de- 
scription of  its  external  appearance,  and  even  enter  pretty  fully 
into  the  details  of  its  internal  organization,  and  yet  could  declare 
that  neither  he  nor  any  one  else  had  ever  seen  one.  And  as  the 
queen's  spaniel  was  found,  so  happily  has  the  animal  of  the  be- 
lemnite; a  few  exceptionally  preserved  specimens  having  been 
discovered  which  completely  verify  the  retrospective  prophecy  of 
those  who  interpreted  the  facts  of  the  case  by  due  application  of 
the  method  of  Zadig. 

These  belemnites  flourished  in  prodigious  abundance  in  the 
seas  of  the  Mesozoic  or  secondary  age  of  the  world's  geological 
history;  but  no  trace  of  them  has  been  found  in  any  of  the  ter- 
tiary deposits,  and  they  appear  to  have  died  out  toward  the  close 
of  the  Mesozoic  epoch.  The  method  of  Zadig,  therefore,  applies 
in  full  force  to  the  events  of  a  period  which  is  immeasurably  re- 
mote, which  long  preceded  the  origin  of  the  most  •  conspicuous 
mountain  masses  of  the  present  world  and  the  deposition,  at  the 
bottom  of  the  ocean,  of  the  rocks  which  form  the  greater  part  of 
the  soil  of  our  present  continents.  The  Euphrates  itself,  at  the 
mouth  of  which  Cannes  landed,  is  a  thing  of  yesterday  compared 
with  a  belemnite;  and  even  the  liberal  chronology  of  magian 
cosmogony  fixes  the  beginning  of  the  world  only  at  a  time  when 
other  applications  of  Zadig's  method  afford  convincing  evidence 
that,  could  we  have  been  there  to  see,  things  would  have  looked 
very  much  as  they  do  now.  Truly  the  magi  were  wise  in  their 
generation ;  they  foresaw  rightly  that  this  pestilent  application  of 
the  principles  of  common  sense  inaugurated  by  Zadig  would  be 
their  ruin. 

But  it  may  be  said  that  the  method  of  Zadig,  which  is  simple 
reasoning  from  analogy,  does  not  account  for  the  most  striking 
feats  of  modern  palaeontology, —  the  reconstruction  of  entire  ani- 


THOMAS  HENRY  HUXLEY  2287 

mals  from  a  tooth  or  perhaps  a  fragment  of  a  bone;  and  it  may 
be  justly  urged  that  Cuvier,  the  great  master  of  this  kind  of  in- 
vestigation, gave  a  very  different  account  of  the  process  which 
yielded  such  remarkable  results. 

Cuvier  is  not  the  first  man  of  ability  who  has  failed  to  make 
his  own  mental  processes  clear  to  himself,  and  he  will  not  be  the 
last.  The  matter  can  be  easily  tested.  Search  the  eight  volumes 
of  the  "  Recherches  sur  les  Ossemens  Fossiles "  from  cover  to 
cover,  and  no  reasoning  from  physiological  necessities  —  nothing 
but  the  application  of  the  method  of  Zadig  pure  and  simple  — 
will  be  found. 

There  is  one  well-known  case  which  may  represent  all.  It  is 
an  excellent  illustration  of  Cuvier's  sagacity,  and  he  evidently 
takes  some  pride  in  telling  his  story  about  it.  A  split  slab  of 
stone  arrived  from  the  quarries  of  Montmartre,  the  two  halves 
of  which  contained  the  greater  part  of  the  skeleton  of  a  small 
animal.  On  careful  examinations  of  the  characters  of  the  teeth 
and  of  the  lower  jaw,  which  happened  to  be  exposed,  Cuvier  as- 
sured himself  that  they  presented  such  a  very  close  resemblance 
to  the  corresponding  parts  in  the  living  opossum  that  he  at  once 
assigned  the  fossil  to  that  genus. 

Now  the  opossums  are  unlike  most  mammals  in  that  they  pos- 
sess two  bones  attached  to  the  fore  part  of  the  pelvis,  which  are 
commonly  called  ** marsupial  bones.**  The  name  is  a  misnomer, 
originally  conferred  because  it  was  thought  that  these  bones 
have  something  to  do  with  the  support  of  the  pouch,  or  marsu- 
pium,  with  which  some,  but  not  all,  of  the  opossums  are  provided. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  they  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  support 
of  the  pouch,  and  they  exist  as  much  in  those  opossums  which 
have  no  pouches  as  in  those  which  possess  them.  In  truth,  no 
one  knows  what  the  use  of  these  bones  may  be,  nor  has  any 
valid  theory  of  their  physiological  import  yet  been  suggested. 
And  if  we  have  no  knowledge  of  the  physiological  importance  of 
the  bones  themselves,  it  is  obviously  absurd  to  pretend  that  we 
are  able  to  give  physiological  reasons  why  the  presence  of  these 
bones  is  associated  with  certain  peculiarities  of  the  teeth  and  of 
the  jaws.  If  any  one  knows  why  four  molar  teeth  and  an  in- 
flected angle  of  the  jaw  are  almost  always  found  along  with  mar- 
supial bones,  he  has  not  yet  communicated  that  knowledge  to  the 
"world. 


2288  THOMAS  HENRY  HUXLEY 

If,  however,  Zadig  was  right  in  concluding  from  the  likeness 
of  the  hoof  prints  which  he  observed  to  a  horse's  that  the  creature 
which  made  them  had  a  tail  like  that  of  a  horse,  Cuvier,  seeing 
that  the  teeth  and  jaw  of  his  fossil  were  just  like  those  of  an 
opossum,  had  the  same  right  to  conclude  that  the  pelvis  would 
also  be  like  an  opossum's;  and  so  strong  was  his  conviction 
that  this  retrospective  prophecy  about  an  animal  which  he  had 
never  seen  before,  and  which  had  been  dead  and  buried  for  mil- 
lions of  years,  would  be  verified  that  he  went  to  work  upon  the 
slab  which  contained  the  pelvis  in  confident  expectation  of  find- 
ing and  laying  bare  the  **  marsupial  bones,''  to  the  satisfaction  of 
some  persons  whom  he  had  invited  to  witness  their  disinterment. 
As  he  says:  **  Cette  operation  se  fit  en  presence  de  quelques  per- 
sonnes  a  qui  fen  avals  annonc^  d'avance  le  r^sultat,  dans  V inten- 
tion de  leur  prouver  par  le  fait  la  justice  de  nos  theories  soolo- 
giques;  puis  que  le  vrai  cachet  d'une  th^orie  est  sans  contredit  la 
faculty  qiCelle  donne  de  pr^voir  les  phinomhies. " 

In  the  ^' Ossemens  Fossiles,"  Cuvier  leaves  his  paper  just  as  it 
first  appeared  in  the  <<Annales  du  Museum,"  as  *^a  curious  monu- 
ment of  the  force  of  zoological  laws  and  of  the  use  which  may 
be  made  of  them." 

Zoological  laws  truly,  but  not  physiological  laws.  If  one  sees 
a  live  dog's  head,  it  is  extremely  probable  that  a  dog's  tail  is  not 
far  off,  though  nobody  can  say  why  that  sort  of  head  and  that 
sort  of  tail  go  together;  what  physiological  connection  there  is 
between  the  two.  So,  in  the  case  of  the  Montmartre  fossil,  Cuvier, 
finding  a  thorough  opossum's  head,  concluded  that  the  pelvis  also 
would  be  like  an  opossum's.  But,  most  assuredly,  the  most  ad- 
vanced physiologist  of  the  present  day  could  throw  no  light  on 
the  question  why  these  are  associated,  or  could  pretend  to  affirm 
that  the  existence  of  the  one  is  necessarily  connected  with  that 
of  the  other.  In  fact,  had  it  so  happened  that  the  pelvis  of  the 
fossil  had  been  originally  exposed,  while  the  head  lay  hidden,  the 
presence  of  the  <'  marsupial  bones, "  however  like  they  might  have 
been  to  an  opossum's,  would  by  no  means  have  warranted  the 
prediction  that  the  skull  would  turn  out  to  be  that  of  the  opos- 
sum. It  might  just  as  well  have  been  like  that  of  some  other 
marsupial;  or  even  like  that  of  the  totally  different  group  of 
monotremes,  of  which  the  only  living  representatives  are  the 
echidna  and  the  ornithorhynchus. 


THOMAS  HENRY  HUXLEY  2289 

For  all  practical  purposes,  however,  the  empirical  laws  of  co- 
ordination of  structures  which  are  embodied  in  the  generalizations 
of  morphology  may  be  confidently  trusted,  if  employed  with  Sue 
caution,  to  lead  to  a  just  interpretation  of  fossil  remains;  or,  in 
other  words,  we  may  look  for  the  verification  of  the  retrospective 
prophecies  which   are   based  upon  them. 

And  if  this  be  the  case,  the  late  advances  which  have  been 
made  in  palseontological  discovery  open  out  a  new  field  for  such 
prophecies.  For  it  has  been  ascertained  with  respect  to  many 
groups  of  animals,  that,  as  we  trace  them  back  in  time,  their 
ancestors  gradually  cease  to  exhibit  those  special  modifications 
which  at  present  characterize  the  type,  and  more  nearly  embody 
the  general  plan  of  the  group  to  which  they  belong. 

Thus,  in  the  well-known  case  of  the  horse,  the  toes  which  are 
suppressed  in  the  living  horse  are  found  to  be  more  and  more 
complete  in  the  older  members  of  the  group,  until,  at  the  bottom 
of  the  tertiary  series  of  America,  we  find  an  equine  animal  which 
has  four  toes  in  front  and  three  behind.  No  remains  of  the 
horse  tribe  are  at  present  known  from  any  Mesozoic  deposit. 
Yet  who  can  doubt  that,  whenever  a  sufficiently  extensive  series 
of  lacustrine  and  fluviatile  beds  of  that  age  becomes  known,  the 
lineage  which  has  been  traced  thus  far  will  be  continued  by 
equine  quadrupeds  with  an  increasing  number  of  digits,  until  the 
horse  type  merges  in  the  five-toed  form  toward  which  these  gra- 
dations point  ? 

But  the  argument  which  holds  good  for  the  horse,  holds  good, 
not  only  for  all  mammals,  but  for  the  whole  animal  world.  And 
as  the  study  of  the  pedigrees  or  lines  of  evolution  to  which  at 
present  we  have  access  brings  to  light,  as  it  assuredly  will  do, 
the  laws  of  that  process,  we  shall  be  able  to  reason  from  the  facts 
with  which  the  geological  record  furnishes  us  to  those  which  have 
hitherto  remained,  and  many  of  which,  perhaps,  may  forever  re- 
main, hidden.  The  same  method  of  reasoning  which  enables  us, 
when  furnished  with  a  fragment  of  an  extinct  animal,  to  prophesy 
the  character  which  the  whole  organism  exhibited,  will,  sooner  or 
later,  enable  us,  when  we  know  a  few  of  the  later  terms  of  a 
genealogical  series    to  predict  the  nature  of  the  earlier  terms. 

In  no  very  distant    future  the  method  of   Zadig,  applied  to  a 
greater    body    of   facts   than    the   present   generation    is   fortunate 
enough    to   handle,    will   enable   the   biologist   to   reconstruct   the 
VI— 144 


2290  THOMAS  HENRY  HUXLEY 

scheme  of  life  from  its  beginning,  and  to  speak  as  confidently  of 
the  character  of  long  extinct  living  beings,  no  trace  of  which 
has  been  preserved,  as  Zadig  did  of  the  queen's  spaniel  and  the 
king's  horse.  Let  us  hope  that  they  may  be  better  rewarded  for 
their  toil  and  their  sagacity  than  was  the  Babylonian  philosopher; 
for  perhaps,  by  that  time,  the  magi  also  may  be  reckoned  among 
the  members  of  a  forgotten  fauna,  extinguished  in  the  struggle 
for  existence  against  their  great  rival  common   sense. 

Complete. 


2391 


JOHN   JAMES   INGALLS 

(1833-1900) 

|oHN  James  Ingalls,  one  of  the  most  brilliant  political  orators 
of  the  second  half  of  the  nineteenth  century,  was  bom  in 
Middleton,  Massachusetts,  December  29th,  1833.  Graduating  at 
Williams  College  in  1855,  and  fitting  himself  for  the  bar,  he  removed 
in  1858  to  Atchison,  Kansas,  and  until  his  death  in  1900  he  was  closely 
identified  with  the  political  history  of  that  State.  From  1873  to  1891 
he  represented  Kansas  in  the  United  States  Senate.  After  his  re- 
tirement he  devoted  himself  chiefly  to  his  law  practice  and  to  literary 
work.  His  celebrated  essay  on  <*  Blue  Grass, '^  which  appeared  in  the 
Kansas  Magazine  in  1872,  shows  that  he  had  the  native  capacity  for 
achieving  the  highest  rank  in  literature.  The  Civil  War  and  the 
virulent  partisanship  which  followed  it  are  sufficient  to  account  for 
the  fact  that  he  did  not  realize  his  possibilities  as  a  writer.  With 
Irving,  Cooper,  Hawthorne,  Longfellow,  Emerson,  Poe,  Holmes,  and 
Lowell,  not  to  mention  half  a  hundred  meritorious  writers  of  a  lower 
grade,  American  literature  during  the  first  half  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury had  in  it  the  promise  of  that  pre-eminence  in  the  literature  of 
the  world  which  it  will  finally  realize.  The  crudity  and  passion  of 
the  Civil  War,  which  interrupted  its  steady  evolution  during  a  full 
generation,  turned  such  brilliant  intellects  as  that  of  Ingalls  to  the 
ephemeral  work  of  partisan  contention.  Their  creativeness  was  not 
wholly  destroyed,  but  in  all  sections  it  was  so  greatly  impeded  that 
it  is  only  with  the  opening  of  the  twentieth  century  that  the  hope  of 
a  national  American  literature,  full  of  the  spirit  of  the  people  and 
governed  by  an  adequate  sense  of  the  high  realities  of  art,  returns 
with  a  prospect  of  prog^ressive  and  uninterrupted  realization.  The 
essay  on  "Blue  Grass,"  as  it  is  given  here,  certainly  belongs  to  this 
American  literature,  and  it  is  not  less  certainly  a  characteristic  Kan- 
sas product.  W.  V.  B. 


2292  JOHN  JAMES  INGALLS 


BLUE  GRASS 


ATTRACTED  by  the  bland  softness  of  an  afternoon  in  my  prim- 
eval winter  in  Kansas,  I  rode  southward  through  the  dense 
forest  that  then  covered  the  bluffs  of  the  North  Fork  of  the 
Wildcat.  The  ground  was  sodden  with  the  ooze  of  melting  snow. 
The  dripping  trees  were  as  motionless  as  granite.  The  last  year's 
leaves,  tenacious  lingerers,  loath  to  leave  the  scene  of  their  brief 
bravery,  adhered  to  the  gray  boughs  like  fragile  bronze.  There 
were  no  visible  indications  of  life,  but  the  broad,  wintry  landscape 
was  flooded  with  that  indescribable  splendor  that  never  was  on 
sea  or  shore — a  purple  and  silken  softness,  that  half  veiled,  half 
disclosed  the  alien  horizon,  the  vast  curves  of  the  remote  river, 
the  transient  architecture  of  the  clouds,  and  filled  the  responsive 
soul  with  a  vague  tumult  of  emotions,  pensive  and  pathetic,  in 
which  regret  and  hope  contended  for  the  mastery.  The  dead 
and  silent  globe,  with  all  its  hidden  kingdom,  seemed  swimming 
like  a  bubble,  suspended  in  an  ethereal  solution  of  amethyst  and 
silver,  compounded  of  the  exhaling  whiteness  of  the  snov.'',  the  de- 
scending glory  of  the  sky.  A  tropical  atmosphere  brooded  upon 
an  Arctic  scene,  creating  the  strange  spectacle  of  summer  in  win- 
ter, June  in  January,  peculiar  to  Kansas,  which  unseen  cannot 
be  imagined,  but  once  seen  can  never  be  forgotten.  A  sudden 
descent  into  the  sheltered  valley  revealed  an  unexpected  crescent 
of  dazzling  verdure,  glittering  like  a  meadow  in  early  spring,  un- 
real as  an  incantation,  surprising  as  the  sea  to  the  soldiers  of 
Xenophon  as  they  stood  upon  the  shore  and  shouted  "Thalatta!* 
It  was  Blue  Grass,  unknown  in  Eden,  the  final  triumph  of  na- 
ture, reserved  to  compensate  her  favorite  offspring  in  the  new 
Paradise  of  Kansas  for  the  loss  of  the  old  upon  the  banks  of  the 
Tigris  and  Euphrates. 

Next  in  importance  to  the  divine  profusion  of  water,  light, 
and  air,  those  three  great  physical  facts  which  render  existence 
possible,  may  be  reckoned  the  universal  beneficence  of  grass.  Ex- 
aggerated by  tropical  heats  and  vapors  to  the  gigantic  cane  con- 
gested with  its  saccharine  secretion,  or  dwarfed  by  polar  rigors 
to  the  fibrous  hair  of  northern  solitudes,  embracing  between  these 
extremes  the  maize  with  its  resolute  pennons,  the  rice  plant  of 
southern  swamps,  the  wheat,  rye,  barley,  oats,  and  other  cereals, 
no  less  than  the  humbler  verdure  of  hillside,  pasture,  and  prairie 


JOHN  JAMES   INGALLS  2293 

in  the  temperate  zone,  grass  is  the  most  widely  distributed  of  all 
vegetable  beings,  and  is  at  once  the  type  of  our  life  and  the  em- 
blem of  our  mortality.  Lying  in  the  sunshine  among  the  butter- 
cups and  dandelions  of  May,  scarcely  higher  in  intelligence  than 
the  minute  tenants  of  that  mimic  wilderness,  our  earliest  recol- 
lections are  of  grass;  and  when  the  fitful  fever  is  ended,  and  the 
foolish  wrangle  of  the  market  and  forum  is  closed,  grass  heals 
over  the  scar  which  our  descent  into  the  bosom  of  the  earth  has 
made,  and  the  carpet  of  the  infant  becomes  the  blanket  of  the 
dead. 

As  he  reflected  upon  the  brevity  of  human  life,  grass  has 
been  the  favorite  symbol  of  the  moralist,  the  chosen  theme  of 
the  philosopher.  «A11  flesh  is  grass,"  said  the  prophet;  «  My  days 
are  as  the  grass,"  sighed  the  troubled  patriarch;  and  the  pensive 
Nebuchadnezzar,  in  his  penitential  mood,  exceeded  even  these, 
and,  as  the  sacred  historian  informs  us,  did  eat  grass  like  an  ox. 

Grass  is  the  forgiveness  of  nature,  —  her  constant  benediction. 
Fields  trampled  with  battle,  saturated  with  blood,  torn  with  the 
ruts  of  cannon,  grow  green  again  with  grass,  and  carnage  is  for- 
gotten. Streets  abandoned  by  traffic  become  grass-grown  like 
rural  lanes,  and  are  obliterated.  Forests  decay,  harvests  perish, 
flowers  vanish,  but  grass  is  immortal.  Beleaguered  by  the  sullen 
hosts  of  winter,  it  withdraws  into  the  impregnable  fortress  of  its 
subterranean  vitality,  and  emerges  upon  the  first  solicitation  of 
spring.  Sown  by  the  winds,  by  wandering  birds,  propagated  by 
the  subtle  horticulture  of  the  elements  which  are  its  ministers 
and  servants,  it  softens  the  rude  outline  of  the  world.  Its  tena- 
cious fibres  hold  the  earth  in  its  place,  and  prevent  its  soluble 
components  from  washing  into  the  wasting  sea.  It  invades  the 
solitude  of  deserts,  climbs  the  inaccessible  slopes  and  forbidding 
pinnacles  of  mountains,  modifies  climates,  and  determines  the  his- 
tory, character,  and  destiny  of  nations.  Unobtrusive  and  patient, 
it  has  immortal  vigor  and  aggression.  Banished  from  the  thor- 
oughfare and  the  field,  it  bides  its  time  to  return,  and  when  vigi- 
lance is  relaxed,  or  the  dynasty  has  perished,  it  silently  resumes 
the  throne  from  which  it  has  been  expelled,  but  which  it  never 
abdicates.  It  bears  no  blazonry  of  bloom  to  charm  the  senses 
with  fragrance  or  splendor,  but  its  homely  hue  is  more  enchant- 
ing than  the  lily  or  the  rose.  It  yields  no  fruit  in  earth  or  air, 
-and  yet,  should  its  harvest  fail  for  a  single  year,  famine  would 
depopulate  the  world. 


2  294  JOHN  JAMES  INGALLS 

One  grass  differs  from  another  grass  in  glory.  One  is  vulgar 
and  another  patrician.  There  are  grades  in  its  vegetable  no- 
bility. Some  varieties  are  useful.  Some  are  beautiful.  Others 
combine  utility  and  ornament.  The  sour,  reedy  herbage  of  the 
swamps  is  base  born.  Timothy  is  a  valuable  servant.  Redtop 
and  clover  are  a  degree  higher  in  the  social  scale.  But  the  king 
of  them  all,  with  genuine  blood  royal,  is  Blue  Grass.  Why  it  is 
called  blue,  save  that  it  is  most  vividly  and  intensely  green,  is 
inexplicable;  but  had  its  unknown  priest  baptized  it  with  all  the 
hues  of  the  prism,  he  would  not  have  changed  its  hereditary  title 
to  imperial  superiority  over  all  its  humble  kin. 

Taine,  in  his  incomparable  "History  of  English  Literature," 
has  well  said  that  the  body  of  man  in  every  country  is  deeply 
rooted  in  the  soil  of  nature.  He  might  properly  have  declared 
that  men  were  wholly  rooted  in  the  soil,  and  that  the  character 
of  nations,  like  that  of  forests,  tubers  and  grains,  is  entirely  de- 
termined by  the  climate  and  soil  in  which  they  germinate.  Dog- 
mas grow  like  potatoes.  Creeds  and  carrots,  catechisms  and 
cabbages,  tenets  and  turnips,  religions  and  ruta-bagas,  govern- 
ments and  grasses,  all  depend  upon  the  dew  point  and  the  thermal 
range.  Give  the  philosopher  a  handful  of  soil,  the  mean  annual 
temperature  and  rainfall,  and  his  analysis  would  enable  him  to 
predict  with  absolute    certainty  the  characteristics  of   the   nation. 

Calvinism  transplanted  to  the  plains  of  the  Ganges  would  per- 
ish of  inanition.  Webster  is  as  much  an  indigenous  product  of 
New  England  as  its  granite  and  its  pines.  Napoleon  was  possi- 
ble only  in  France;  Cromwell  in  England;  Christ,  and  the  splen- 
did invention  of  immortality,  alone  in  Palestine.  Moral  causes 
and  qualities  exert  influences  far  beyond  their  nativity,  and  ideas 
are  transplanted  and  exported  to  meet  the  temporary  require- 
ments of  the  tastes  or  necessities  of  man;  as  we  see  exotic  palms 
in  the  conservatories  of  Chatsworth,  russet  apples  at  Surinam,  and 
oranges  in  Atchison.  But  there  is  no  growth, —  nothing  but  change 
of  location.  The  phenomena  of  politics  exhibit  the  operations  of 
the  same  law.  Contrast  the  enduring  fabric  of  our  federal  liber- 
ties with  the  abortive  struggles  of  Mexico  and  the  Central  Ameri- 
can republics.  The  tropics  are  inconsistent  with  democracy. 
Tyranny  is  alien  to  the  temperate  zone. 

The  direct  agency  upon  which  all  these  conditions  depend, 
and  through  which  these  forces  operate,  is  food.  Temperature, 
humidity,  soil,  sunlight,  electricity,  vital  force,  express  themselves 


JOHN   JAMES   INGALLS  2295 

primarily  in  vegetable  existence  that  furnishes  the  basis  of  that 
animal  life  which  yields  sustenance  to  the  human  race.  What  a 
man,  a  community,  a  nation  can  do,  think,  suffer,  imagine,  or 
achieve,  depends  upon  what  it  eats.  Bran  eaters  and  vegetarians 
are  not  the  kings  of  men.  Rice  and  potatoes  are  the  diet  of  slaves. 
The  races  that  live  on  beef  have  ruled  the  world,  and  the  better 
the  beef  the  greater  the  deeds  they  have  done.  Mediaeval  Eu- 
rope, the  Vandals,  and  Huns,  and  Goths,  ate  the  wild  hog,  whose 
brutal  ferocity  was  repeated  in  their  truculent  valor,  and  whose 
loathsome  protoplasm  bore  the  same  relation  to  that  barbarous 
epoch  that  a  rosy  steak  from  a  short-horned  Durham  does  to  the 
civilization  of  the  nineteenth  century.  A  dim  consciousness  of 
the  intimate  connection  between  regimen  and  religion  seems  to 
have  dawned  upon  the  intellectual  horizon  of  those  savage  tribes 
who  eat  the,  missionaries  which  a  misguided  philanthropy  has  sent 
to  save  their  souls  from  perdition. 

The  primary  form  of  food  is  grass.  Grass  feeds  the  ox;  the 
ox  nourishes  man;  man  dies  and  goes  to  grass  again;  and  so  the 
tide  of  life,  with  everlasting  repetition,  in  continuous  circles,  moves 
endlessly  on  and  upward,  and  in  more  senses  than  one,  all  flesh 
is  grass.  But  all  flesh  is  not  Blue  Grass.  If  it  were,  the  devil's 
occupation  would  be  gone. 

There  is  a  portion  of  Kentucky  known  as  the  <'  Blue-Grass  Re- 
gion," and  it  is  safe  to  say  that  it  has  been  the  arena  of  the  most 
magnificent  intellectual  and  physical  development  that  has  been 
witnessed  among  men  or  animals  upon  the  American  continent, 
or  perhaps  upon  the  whole  face  of  the  world.  In  corroboration 
of  this  belief,  it  is  necessary  only  to  mention  Henry  Clay,  the 
orator,  and  the  horse,  Lexington,  both  peerless,  electric,  immor- 
tal. The  ennobling  love  of  the  horse  has  extended  to  all  other 
races  of  animals.  Incomparable  herds  of  high-bred  cattle  graze 
the  tranquil  pastures,  their  elevating  protoplasm  supplying  a  finer 
force  to  human  passions,  brains,  and  will.  Hog  artists  devote 
their  genius  to  shortening  the  snouts  and  swelling  the  hams  of 
their  grunting  brethren.  The  reflex  of  this  solicitude  appears  in 
the  muscular,  athletic  vigor  of  the  men,  and  the  voluptuous  beauty 
of  the  women  who  inhabit  this  favored  land.  Palaces,  temples, 
forests,  peaceful  institutions,  social  order,  spring  like  exhalations 
from  the  congenial   soil. 

All  these  marvels  are  attributable  as  directly  to  the  potential 
influence  of  Blue  Grass  as  day  and  night  to  the  revolution  of  the 


2296  JOHN  JAMES  INGALLS 

earth.  Eradicate  it,  substitute  for  it  the  scrawny  herbage  of  im- 
poverished barrens,  and  in  a  single  generation  man  and  beast 
would  alike  degenerate  into  a  common  decay.     .     .     . 

The  typical  Kansas  has  not  yet  appeared.  Our  population  is 
composed  of  more  alien  and  conflicting  elements  than  were  ever 
assembled  under  one  political  organization,  each  mature,  each 
stimulated  to  abnormal  activity.  It  is  not  yet  fused  and  welded 
into  a  homogeneous  mass,  and  we  must  therefore  consult  the  or- 
acles of  analogy  to  ascertain  in  what  garb  our  Coming  Man  will 
arrive.  His  lineaments  and  outline  will  be  controlled  by  the 
abode  we  fashion,  and  the  food  that  we  prepare  for  him  when 
he  comes. 

Though  our  State  is  embryonic  and  fetal  at  present,  it  is  not 
difficult  to  perceive  certain  distinctive  features  indigenous  to  our 
limits.  The  social  order  is  anomalous.  Our  politics  have  been 
exceptional,  violent,  personal,  convulsive.  The  appetite  of  the 
community  demands  the  stimulus  of  revolution.  It  is  not  con- 
tent with  average  results  in  morals.  It  hungers  for  excitement. 
Its  favorite  apostles  and  prophets  have  been  the  howling  der- 
vishes of  statesmanship  and  religion.  Every  new  theory  seeks 
Kansas  as  its  tentative  point,  sure  of  partisans  and  disciples. 
Our  life  is  intense  in  every  expression.  We  pass  instantaneously 
from  tremendous  energy  to  the  most  inert  and  sluggish  torpor. 
There  is  no  golden  mean.  We  act  first  and  think  afterwards. 
These  idiosyncrasies  are  rapidly  becoming  typical,  and,  unless 
modified  by  the  general  introduction  of  Blue  Grass,  may  be  ren- 
dered permanent.  Nature  is  inconstant,  and  molds  us  to  her 
varying  moods. 

Kansas  is  all  antithesis.  It  is  the  land  of  extremes.  It  is 
the,  hottest,  coldest,  driest,  wettest,  thickest,  thinnest  country  of 
the  world.  The  stranger  who  crossed  our  borders  for  the  first 
time  at  Wyandotte  and  traveled  by  rail  to  White  Cloud  would, 
with  consternation,  contrast  that  uninterrupted  Sierra  of  rugose 
and  oak-clad  crags  with  the  placid  prairies  of  his  imagination. 
Let  him  ride  along  the  spine  of  any  of  those  lateral  ^*  divides  '* 
or  watersheds  whose 

*  Level  leagues  forsaken  lie, 
A  grassy  waste,  extending  to  the  sky,* 

and  he  would  be  oppressed  by  the  same  melancholy  monotony 
which  broods  over  those  who   pursue   the   receding   horizon  over 


JOHN  JAMES  INGALLS  2297 

the  fluctuating  plains  of  the  sea.  And  let  his  discursion  be 
whither  it  would,  if  he  listened  to  the  voice  of  experience  he 
would  not  start  upon  his  pilgrimage  at  any  season  of  the  year 
without  an  overcoat,  a  fan,  a  lightning  rod,  and  an  umbrella. 

The  newcomer,  alarmed  by  the  traditions  of  "the  drought  of 
'60, »  when,  in  the  language  of  one  of  the  varnished  rhetoricians 
of  that  epoch,  « acorns  were  used  for  food  and  the  bark  of  trees 
for  clothing,^*  views  with  terror  the  long  succession  of  dazzling 
early  summer  days,  days  without  clouds  and  nights  without  dew, 
days  when  the  effulgent  sun  floods  the  dome  with  fierce  and 
blinding  radiance,  days  of  glittering  leaves  and  burnished  blades 
of  serried  ranks  of  corn,  days  when  the  transparent  air,  purged 
of  all  earthly  exhalation  and  alloy,  seems  like  a  pure,  powerful 
lens,  revealing  a  remoter  horizon  and  a  profounder  sky. 

But  his  apprehensions  are  relieved  by  the  unheralded  appear- 
ance of  a  cloud  no  bigger  than  a  man's  hand,  in  the  northwest. 
A  huge  bulk  of  purple  and  ebony  vapor,  preceded  by  a  surging 
wave  of  pallid  smoke,  blots  out  the  sky.  Birds  and  insects  dis- 
appear, and  cattle  abruptly  stand  agaze.  An  appalling  silence, 
an  ominous  darkness,  fill  the  atmosphere.  A  continuous  roll  of 
muffled  thunder,  increasing  in  volume,  shakes  the  solid  earth. 
The  air  suddenly  grows  chill,  and  smells  like  an  unused  cellar. 
A  fume  of  yellow  dust  conceals  the  base  of  the  meteor.  The 
jagged  scimiter  of  the  lightning,  drawn  from  its  cloudy  scabbard, 
is. brandished  for  a  terrible  instant  in  the  abyss,  and  thrust  into 
the  affrighted  city  with  a  crash,  as  if  the  rafters  of  the  world 
had  fallen.  The  wind,  hitherto  concealed,  leaps  from  its  ambush 
and  lashes  the  earth  with  scourges  of  rain.  The  broken  cisterns 
of  the  clouds  can  hold  no  water,  and  rivers  run  in  the  atmos- 
phere. Dry  ravines  become  turbid  torrents,  bearing  cargoes  of 
drift  and  rubbish  on  their  swift  descent.  Confusion  and  chaos 
hold  undisputed  sway.  In  a  moment  the  turmoil  ceases.  A  gray 
veil  of  rain  stands  like  a  wall  of  granite  in  the  eastern  sky.  The 
trailing  banners  of  the  storm  hang  from  the  frail  bastions.  The 
routed  squadrons  of  mist,  gray  on  violet,  terrified  fugitives,  pre- 
cipitately fly  beneath  the  triumphal  arch  of  a  rainbow,  whose 
airy  and  insubstantial  glory  dies  with  the  dying  sun. 

For  days  the  phenomenon  is  repeated.  Water  oozes  from  the 
air.  The  strands  of  rain  are  woven  with  the  inconstant  sun- 
beam. Reeds  and  sedges  grow  in  the  fields,  and  all  nature  tends 
to  fins,  web  feet,  and  amphibiousness. 


2298  JOHN  JAMES  INGALLS 

Oppressed  by  the  sedate  monotony  of  the  horizon,  and  tor- 
tured by  the  alternating  hopes  and  fears  which  such  a  climate 
excites,  the  prairie  dweller  becomes  sombre  and  grave  in  his  con- 
versation and  demeanor.  Upon  that  illimitable  expanse,  and 
beneath  that  silent  and  cloudless  sky,  mirth  and  levity  are  im- 
possible. Meditation  becomes  habitual.  Fortitude  and  persistence 
succumb  under  the  careless  husbandry  induced  by  the  generous 
soil.  The  forests,  ledges,  and  elevations  which  serve  to  identify 
other  localities  and  make  them  conspicuous,  are  wanting  here. 
Nature  furnishes  farms  ready  made,  like  clothing  in  a  slopshop; 
and  as  we  relinquish  without  pain  what  we  acquire  without  toil, 
the  denizen  has  no  local  attachments,  and  daunted  by  slight  ob- 
stacles, or  discontented  by  trivial  discomforts,  becomes  migratory 
and  follows  the  coyote  and  the  bison.  The  pure  stimulus  of  the 
air  brings  his  nerves  into  unnatural  sensitiveness  and  activity.  His 
few  diseases  are  brief  and  fatal.  Rapid  evaporation  absorbs  the 
juices  of  his  body,  and  he  grows  cachectic.  Hospitality  is  formal. 
Life  assumes  its  most  serious  aspect.  In  religion  he  is  austere; 
in  debauchery  violent  and  excessive,  but  irregular. 

The  thoughtful  observer  cannot  fail  to  conclude  that  Kansas 
is  to  be  the  theatre  of  some  extraordinary  development  in  the 
future.  Our  history,  soil,  climate,  and  population  have  all  been 
exceptional,  and  they  all  point  to  an  anomalous  destiny.  Our  po- 
sition is  focal.  Energy  accumulates  here.  Our  material  advance- 
ment indicates  a  concentration  of  force,  such  as  no  State  in  its 
infancy  has  ever  witnessed.  Every  citizen  is  impressed  with  the 
belief  that  he  has  a  special  mission  to  perform.  Every  immigrant 
immediately  catches  the  contagion  and  sleeps  no  more.  He  rushes 
to  the  frontier,  stakes  out  a  town  without  an  inhabitant,  builds  a 
hotel  without  a  guest,  starts  a  newspaper  without  a  subscriber, 
organizes  railroad  companies  for  direct  connections  with  New  York, 
San  Francisco,  Hudson's  Bay,  and  the  Gulf  of  Mexico.  When  two 
or  three  are  gathered  together  they  vote  a  million  dollars  of  ten 
per  cent,  bonds,  payable  in  London,  and  before  the  prairie  dogs 
have  had  time  to  secure  a  new  location  the  bonds  are  sold,  loco- 
motives are  heard  screaming  in  the  distance,  a  strange  population 
assembles  from  the  four  quarters  of  the  globe,  and  an  impassioned 
orator  rises  in  the  next  State  convention  and  "demands  the  nomi- 
nation of  the  Honorable  Ajax  Agamemnon  of  Marathon,  to  repre- 
sent that  ancient  constituency  in  the  halls  of  the  national  congress. 
In  a  year,  or  a  month,  it  may  be,  the  excitement  subsides,  comer 


JOHN  JAT^IES  INGALLS  2299 

lots  can  be  bought  for  less  than  the  price  of  quarter  sections. 
"  jimson  weed  '^  starts  up  in  the  streets,  second-hand  clothing  men 
purchase  the  improvements  for  a  tenth  of  their  cost,  and  the 
volcano  breaks  out  again  in  some  other  part  of  the  State. 

The  names  of  dead  Kansas  newspapers  outnumber  the  living; 
her  acts  of  incorporation  for  forgotten  cities,  towns,  railroads,  fer- 
ries, colleges,  cemeteries,  banks,  fill  ponderous  volumes ;  the  money 
that  has  been  squandered  in  these  chimerical  schemes  would  build 
the  Capitol  of  polished  marble,  and  cover  its  dome  with  beaten 
gold. 

But,  notwithstanding  this  random  and  spasmodic  activity,  our 
solid  progress  has  been  without  parallel.  No  community  in  the 
world  can  show  a  corresponding  advancement  in  the  same  time 
and  under  similar  circumstances.  Guided  by  reflection,  directed 
by  prudence,  controlled  by  calm  reason,  upon  what  higher  emi- 
nence these  intense  forces  might  have  placed  us  can  hardly  be 
conjectured.  But  such  a  career,  however  fortunate  it  might  have 
been,  our  physical  surroundings  have  rendered  impossible.  The 
sudden  release  of  the  accumulated  energy  so  long  imprisoned  in 
the  useless  soil,  the  prodigious  store  of  electricity  in  the  atmos- 
phere, and  the  resentment  which  Nature  always  exhibits  at  the 
invasion  of  her  solitudes,  all  contributed  to  induce  a  social  disor- 
der as  intemperate  as  their  own.  But  an  improvement  in  our 
physical  conditions  is  already  perceptible.  The  introduction  of 
the  metals  in  domestic  and  agricultural  implements,  jewelry,  rail- 
roads, and  telegraphs,  has,  to  a  great  extent,  restored  the  equi- 
librium, and  by  constantly  conducting  electricity  to  the  earth, 
prevents  local  congestion  and  a  recurrence  of  the  tempests  and 
tornadoes  of  early  days.  The  rains  which  were  wont  to  run  from 
the  trampled  pavement  of  the  sod  suddenly  into  the  streams  are 
now  absorbed  into  the  cultivated  soil,  and  gradually  restored  to 
the  air  by  solar  evaporation,  making  the  alternation  of  the  sea- 
sons less  violent,  and  continued  droughts  less  probable.  Under 
these  benign  influences,  prairie  grass  is  disappearing.  The  vari- 
ous breeds  of  cattle,  hogs,  and  horses  are  improving.  The  cul- 
ture of  orchards  and  vineyards  yields  more  certain  returns.  A 
richer,  healthier,  and  more  varied  diet  is  replacing  the  side  meat 
and  corn  pone  of  antiquity.  Blue  Grass  is  marching  into  the 
bowels  of  the  land  without  impediment.  Its  perennial  verdure 
already  clothes  the  bluffs  and  uplands  along  the  streams,  its 
spongy  sward  retaining  the  moisture  of  the  earth,  preventing  the 


2300  JOHN  JAMES  INGALLS 

annual  scarification  by  fire,  promoting  the  growth  of  forests,  and 
elevating  the  nature  of  man. 

Supplementing  this  material  improvement  is  an  evident  ad- 
vance in  manners  and  morals.  The  little  log  schoolhouse  is 
replaced  by  magnificent  structures  furnished  with  every  educa- 
tional appliance.  Churches  multiply.  The  commercial  element 
has  disappeared  from  politics.  The  intellectual  standard  of  the 
press  has  advanced,  and  with  the  general  diffusion  of  Blue  Grass 
we  may  reasonably  anticipate  a  career  of  unexampled  and  endur- 
ing prosperity. 

The  drama  has  opened  with  a  stately  procession  of  historic 
events.  No  ancient  issues  confuse  the  theme.  No  buried  nations 
sleep  in  the  untainted  soil,  vexing  the  present  with  their  phan- 
toms, retarding  progress  with  the  burden  of  their  outworn  creeds, 
depressing  enthusiasm  by  the  silent  reproof  of  their  mighty 
achievements.  Heirs  of  the  greatest  results  of  time,  we  are 
emancipated  from  all  allegiance  to  the  past.  Unincumbered  by 
precedents,  we  stand  in  the  vestibule  of  a  future  which  is  des- 
tined to  disclose  upon  this  arena  time's  noblest  offspring,  —  the 
perfected  flower  of  American  manhood. 

From  the  Kansas  Magazine 
September,  1872 


2301 


WASHINGTON   IRVING 
(1783-1859) 

!ext  to  Addison  himself,  Washington  Irving  is  the  most  thor- 
ough master  of  Addison's  prose  style.  Indeed,  it  is  not  a 
paradox  to  say  that  at  times  he  writes  the  Addisonian  essay 
better  than  Addison  himself,  for  he  has  a  delicacy  of  touch  in  portrait 
drawing  and  character  sketching  which  he  does  not  lose  even  when 
he  is  most  serious;  while  Addison's  tender  humor  is  far  from  being 
a  characteristic  of  all  his  Spectator  essays.  This  in  Addison  is  not 
an  indication  of  inferiority,  but  an  incident  of  that  solidity  of  judg- 
ment and  loftiness  of  thought  which  are  as  characteristic  of  him  at 
his  very  best  as  parody  and  burlesque  are  of  Irving  when  he  throws- 
off  the  restraints  of  his  classical  training.  Addison  could  not  have  writ- 
ten the  Knickerbocker  «  History  of  New  York,"  nor  could  Irving  have 
written  Addison's  essay  «  On  the  Message  of  the  Stars »  in  the  Spec- 
tator of  August  22d,  17 1 2.  "We  can  see,  too,  that  Irving's  best  charac- 
ters in  «Bracebridge  Hall»  are  the  near  relations  of  Sir  Roger  de 
Coverley's  family  and  friends.  But  if  Irving  takes  pleasure  in  openly 
imitating  the  manner  of  the  Spectator,  he  succeeds  to  an  eminent  de- 
gree in  doing  what  no  one  else  has  been  able  to  do  at  all, — in  giving 
new  vitality  and  a  distinct  individuality  to  everything  he  borrows  from 
the  masters  of  Queen  Anne's  reign. 

Irving  differs  from  the  Spectator  school  much  more  in  character 
than  in  style.  To  them  the  essay  was  to  be  the  means  of  reforming 
a  depraved  generation.  They  had  a  deep  consciousness  of  a  serious 
mission,  and  as  a  result  they  often  cease  to  amuse  in  their  anxiety  to 
instruct.  Irving  has  little  of  the  reformer  in  him.  He  saw  the  in- 
consistencies and  incongruities  of  human  character  and  of  the  history 
which  grows  out  of  them;  but  instead  of  preaching,  he  laughed.  He  is, 
by  nature  a  story-teller  rather  than  a  «Vates,»  as  Addison  was,  and 
all  his  essays  tend  to  become  stories.  In  the  «Alhambra,"  the  essay 
and  the  tale  are  so  blended  that  it  is  impossible  to  separate  them. 
So  in  his  masterpieces.  «Rip  Van  Winkle  »  and  «The  Legend  of  Sleepy 
Hollow,"  Irving,  though  he  is  still  a  pupil  of  Addison,  is  no  longer  an 
essayist  at  all,  but  a  story-teller,  illustrating  a  highly  developed  faculty 
of  inventing  plots  of  which  Addison  shows  only  a  rudimentary  trace. 
Charming  as  he  is  in  essay  writing,  Irving's  great  strength  lies  in 
easy    narrative.      This   he    understood    so   thoroughly    that    when    his 


2302 


WASHINGTON  IRVING 


extensive  writings  are  analyzed  they  are  found  to  be  nearly  all  narra- 
tive. Even  his  lightest  sketches  have  a  tendency  to  develop  a  plot. 
Kis  portraits  will  not  stay  upon  his  easel.  They  «come  to  life,*  step 
down  and  begin  to  act  in  the  most  animated  manner  before  they  are 
more  than  half  drawn.  In  this  he  resembles  Hawthorne,  and  it  is 
this  chiefly  which  differentiates  him  from  the  « wits  »  of  Queen  Anne's 
reign.  We  believe  in  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  —  as  the  most  admir- 
able literary  portrait  ever  painted.  But  we  accept  Rip  Van  Winkle, 
with  all  his  improbabilities,  as  one  of  the  high  realities  of  a  super- 
natural world, — not  a  portrait,  but  an  absolute  illogical  necessity, 
who,  when  once  created  by  Irving,  is  as  much  alive  as  we  are.  What 
this  means  we  can  the  better  realize  by  remembering  that  the  diffi- 
culty of  presenting  Sir  Roger  on  the  stage  would  be  as  insuperable 
as  that  of  keeping  Rip  Van  Winkle  off. 

Irving  was  born  at  New  York,  April  3d,  1783.  His  father,  William 
Irving,  was  an  Englishman,  and  Irving  at  early  maturity  had  none  of 
the  prejudice  against  English  manners  and  institutions  which  often 
characterized  young  Americans  of  that  time.  In  1804,  when  he  went 
abroad  for  two  years  for  his  health,  he  received  the  first  impulse 
towards  a  mode  of  writing  in  which  he  excels, —  that  of  describing  the 
customs  of  other  countries  in  such  sketches  and  essays  as  those  of 
«  Bracebridge  Hall»  and  the  «Alhambra.»  In  18 15  he  went  abroad 
again,  and  "Bracebridge  Hall,'*  which  appeared  seven  years  later,  made 
him  a  great  favorite  with  the  aristocratic  party  in  England.  His 
Knickerbocker  «  History  of  New  York,"  which  appeared  in  1809,  had 
made  him  famous  in  America.  « The  Sketch  Book »  appeared  in  parts 
in  1 8 19,  and  was  published  in  book  form  in  1820.  Until  his  death, 
November  28th,  1859,  he  continued  to  write  one  volume  after  another 
of  sketches,  biographies,  and  histories  with  hardly  a  dull  line  in  them. 
It  is  not  necessary  and  it  would  be  ungrateful  to  complain  that  he 
lacks  depth,  while  no  doubt  it  is  true  that  no  other  author  of  his 
generation  has  written  so  voluminously  and  so  entertainingly  on  such 
a  wide  range  of  subjects. 

W.  V.  B. 


WASHINGTON   IRVING  23C3 


BRACEBRIDGE  HALL 

The  ancientest  house,  and  the  best  for  housekeeping,  in  this  country 
or  the  next ;  and  though  the  master  of  it  write  but  Squire,  I  know  no 
lord  like  him. —  ^^  Merry  Beggars.*^ 

THE  reader,  if  he  has  perused  the  volumes  of  ^*  The  Sketch  Book,*' 
will  probably  recollect  something  of  the  Bracebridge  family, 
with  which  I  once  passed  a  Christmas.  I  am  now  on  another 
visit  at  the  Hall,  having  been  invited  to  a  wedding  which  is  shortly 
to  take  place.  The  Squire's  second  son,  Guy,  a  fine,  spirited 
young  captain  in  the  army,  is  about  to  be  married  to  his  father's 
ward,  the  fair  Julia  Templeton.  A  gathering  of  relations  and 
friends  has  already  commenced,  to  celebrate  the  joyful  occasion; 
for  the  old  gentleman  is  an  enemy  to  quiet,  private  weddings. 
"  There  is  nothing,  **  he  says,  *^  like  launching  a  young  couple 
gayly,  and  cheering  them  from  the  shore;  a  good  outset  is  half 
the  voyage.'* 

Before  proceeding  any  further,  I  would  beg  that  the  Squire 
might  not  he  confounded  with  that  class  of  hard-riding,  fox- 
hunting gentlemen  so  often  described,  and,  in  fact,  so  nearly  ex- 
tinct In  England.  I  use  this  rural  title  partly  because  it  is  his 
universal  appellation  throughout  the  neighborhood,  and  partly  be- 
cause it  saves  me  the  frequent  repetition  of  his  name,  which  is 
one  of  those  rough  old  English  names  at  which  Frenchmen  ex- 
claim in  despair. 

The  Squire  is,  in  fact,  a  lingering  specimen  of  the  old  Eng- 
lish country  gentleman ;  rusticated  a  little  by  living  almost  entirely 
on  his  estate,  and  something  of  a  humorist,  as  Englishmen  are 
apt  to  become  when  they  have  an  opportunity  of  living  in  their 
own  way.  I  like  his  hobby  passing  well,  however,  which  is  a 
bigoted  devotion  to  old  English  manners  and  customs;  it  jumps 
a  little  with  my  own  humor,  having  as  yet  a  lively  and  unsated 
curiosity  about  the  ancient  and  genuine  characteristics  of  my 
"fatherland.'* 

There  are  some  traits  about  the  Squire's  family,  also,  which 
appear  to  me  to  be  national.  It  is  one  of  those  old  aristocratical 
families,  which,  I  believe,  are  peculiar  to  England,  and  scarcely 
understood  in  other  countries;  that  is  to  say,  families  of  the  an- 
cient gentry,  who,  though  destitute  of  titled  rank,  maintain  a  high 


2304  WASHINGTON  IRVING 

ancestral  pride;  who  look  down  upon  all  nobility  of  recent  crea- 
tion, and  would  consider  it  a  sacrifice  of  dignity  to  merge  the 
venerable  name  of  their  house  in  a  modern  title. 

This  feeling  is  very  much  fostered  by  the  importance  which 
they  enjoy  on  their  hereditary  domains.  The  family  mansion  is 
an  old  manor  house,  standing  in  a  retired  and  beautiful  part  of 
Yorkshire.  Its  inhabitants  have  been  always  regarded,  through 
the  surrounding  country,  as  "  the  great  ones  of  the  earth  * ;  and 
the  little  village  near  the  Hall  looks  up  to  the  Squire  with  al- 
most feudal  homage.  An  old  manor  house,  and  an  old  family  of 
this  kind,  are  rarely  to  be  met  with  at  the  present  day;  and  it  is 
probably  the  peculiar  humor  of  the  Squire  that  has  retained  this 
secluded  specimen  of  English  housekeeping  in  something  like  the 
genuine  old  style. 

I  am  again  quartered  in  the  paneled  chamber,  in  the  antique 
wing  of  the  house.  The  prospect  from  my  window,  however,  has 
quite  a  different  aspect  from  that  which  it  wore  on  my  winter  visit. 
Through  the  early  month  of  April,  yet  a  few  warm,  sunshiny 
days  have  drawn  forth  the  beauties  of  the  spring,  which,  I  think, 
are  always  most  captivating  on  their  first  opening.  The  par- 
terres of  the  old-fashioned  garden  are  gay  with  flowers;  and  the 
gardener  has  brought  out  his  exotics,  and  placed  them  along  the 
stone  balustrades.  The  trees  are  clothed  with  green  buds  and 
tender  leaves.  When  I  throw  open  my  jingling  casement,  I  smell 
the  odor  of  mignonette,  and  hear  the  hum  of  the  bees  from  the 
flowers  against  the  sunny  wall,  wdth  the  varied  song  of  the 
throstle,   and  the  cheerful  notes  of  the  tuneful  httle  wren. 

While  sojourning  in  this  stronghold  of  old  fashions,  it  is  my 
intention  to  make  occasional  sketches  of  the  scenes  and  charac- 
ters before  me.  I  would  have  it  understood,  however,  that  I  am 
not  writing  a  novel,  and  have  nothing  of  intricate  plot  or  mar- 
velous adventure  to  promise  the  reader.  The  Hall  of  which  I 
treat  has,  for  aught  I  know,  neither  trapdoor,  nor  sliding  panel, 
nor  donjon  keep;  and,  indeed,  appears  to  have  no  mystery  about 
it.  The  family  is  a  worthy  well-meaning  family,  that,  in  all  prob- 
ability, will  eat  and  drink,  and  go  to  bed,  and  get  up  regularly, 
from  one  end  of  my  work  to  the  other;  and  the  Squire  is  so 
kind-hearted  that  I  see  no  likelihood  of  his  throwing  any  kind  of 
distress  in  the  way  of  the  approaching  nuptials.  In  a  word,  I 
cannot  foresee  a  single  extraordinary  event  that  is  likely  to  occur 
in  the  whole  term  of  my  sojourn  at  the  Hall. 


WASHINGTON   IRVING  2305 

I  tell  this  honestly  to  the  reader,  lest,  when  he  finds  me  dal- 
lying along,  through  every-day  English  scenes,  he  may  hurry 
ahead,  in  hopes  of  meeting  with  some  marvelous  adventure  fur- 
ther on.  I  invite  him,  on  the  contrary,  to  ramble  gently  on  with 
me,  as  he  would  saunter  out  into  the  fields,  stopping  occasionally 
to  o-ather  a  flower,  or  listen  to  a  bird,  or  admire  a  prospect, 
without  any  anxiety  to  arrive  at  the  end  of  his  career.  Should 
I,  however,  in  the  course  of  my  wanderings  about  this  old  man- 
sion see  or  hear  anything  curious,  that  might  serve  to  vary  the 
monotony  of  this  ever>'-day  life,  I  shall  not  fail  to  report  it  for 
the  reader's  entertainment:  — 

«For  freshest  wits  I  know  will  soon  be  wearie 
Of  any  book,  how  grave  soe'er  it  be, 
Except  it  have  odd  matter,  strange  and  merrie. 
Well  sauc'd  with  lies  and  glared  all  with  glee." 

Complete.     From  «  Bracebridge  Hall.* 


THE   BUSY  MAN 

A  decayed  gentleman  who  lives  most  upon  his  own  mirth  and 
my  master's  means,  and  much  good  do  him  with  it.  He  does  hold 
my  master  np  with  his  stories,  and  songs,  and  catches,  and  such 
tricks  and  jigs,  you  would  admire — he  is  with  him  now. 

— <<  A  Jovial  Crew." 

By  NO  one  has  my  return  to  the  Hall  been  more  heartily 
greeted  than  by  Mr.  Simon  Bracebridge,  or  Master  Simon, 
as  the  Squire  most  commonly  calls  him.  I  encountered  him 
just  as  I  entered  the  park,  where  he  was  breaking  a  pointer,  and 
he  received  me  with  all  the  hospitable  cordiality  with  which  a  man 
welcomes  a  friend  to  another  one's  house.  I  have  already  intro- 
duced him  to  the  reader  as  a  brisk,  old,  bachelor-looking  little 
man;  the  wit  and  superannuated  beau  of  a  large  family  connec- 
tion, and  the  Squire's  factotum.  I  found  him,  as  usual,  full  of 
bustle,  with  a  thousand  petty  things  to  do,  and  persons  to  attend 
to,  and  in  chirping  good  humor;  for  there  are  few  happier  beings 
than  a  busy  idler,— that  is  to  say,  a  man  who  is  eternally  busy 
about  nothing. 

I  visited    him,    the  morning  after  my  arrival,   in  his  chamber, 
which  is  in  a  remote  corner  of   the  mansion,  as  he  says  he  likes 
VI— 145 


2306  WASHINGTON  IRVING 

to  be  to  himself,  and  out  of  the  way.  He  has  fitted  it  up  in  his 
own  taste,  so  that  it  is  a  perfect  epitome  of  an  old  bachelor's 
notions  of  convenience  and  arrangement.  The  furniture  is  made 
up  of  odd  pieces  from  all  parts  of  the  house,  chosen  on  account 
of  their  suiting  his  notions,  •  or  fitting  some  corner  of  his  apart- 
ment; and  he  is  very  eloquent  in  praise  of  an  ancient  elbow  chair, 
from  which  he  takes  occasion  to  digress  into  a  censure  on  mod- 
ern chairs,  as  having  degenerated  from  the  dignity  and  comfort 
of  high-backed  antiquity. 

Adjoining  to  his  room  is  a  small  cabinet,  which  he  calls  his 
study.  Here  are  some  hanging  shelves,  of  his  own  construction, 
on  which  are  several  old  works  on  hawking,  hunting,  and  farriery, 
and  a  collection  or  two  of  poems  and  songs  of  the  reign  of  Eliza- 
beth, which  he  studies  out  of  compliment  to  the  Squire;  together 
with  the  Novelist's  Magazine,  the  Sporting  Magazine,  the  Racing 
Calendar,  a  volume  or  two  of  the  Newgate  Calendar,  a  book  of 
the  peerage,  and  another  of  heraldry. 

His  sporting  dresses  hang  on  pegs  in  a  small  closet;  and  about 
the  walls  of  his  apartment  are  hooks  to  hold  his  fishing  tackle, 
whips,  spurs,  and  a  favorite  fowling  piece,  curiously  wrought  and 
inlaid,  which  he  inherits  from  his  grandfather.  He  has,  also,  a 
couple  of  old  single-keyed  flutes,  and  a  fiddle  which  he  has  re- 
peatedl)^  patched  and  mended  himself,  affirming  it  to  be  a  verita- 
ble  Cremona;  though  I  have  never  heard  him  extract  a  single 
note  from  it  that  was  not  enough  to  make  one's  blood  run  cold. 
From  this  little  nest  his  fiddle  will  often  be  heard,  in  the 
stillness  of  midday,  drowsily  sawing  some  long-forgotten  tune; 
for  he  prides  himself  on  having  a  choice  collection  of  good  old 
English  music,  and  will  scarcely  have  anything  to  do  with  mod- 
em composers.  The  time,  however,  at  which  his  musical  powers 
are  of  most  use  is  now  and  then  of  an  evening,  when  he  plays 
for  the  children  to  dance  in  the  hall,  and  he  passes  among  them 
and  the  servants  for  a  perfect  Orpheus. 

His  chamber  also  bears  evidence  of  his  various  avocations: 
there  are  half -copied  sheets  of  music;  designs  for  needlework; 
sketches  of  landscapes,  very  indifferently  executed;  a  camera  lu- 
cida;  a  magic  lantern,  for  which  he  is  endeavoring  to  paint  glasses; 
in  a  word,  it  is  the  cabinet  of  a  man  of  many  accomplishments, 
who  knows  a  little  of  everything,   and  does  nothing  well. 

After  I  had  spent  some  time  in  his  apartments,  admiring  the 
ingenuity  of  his  small  inventions,  he  took  me  about  the  establish- 


WASHINGTON    IRVING  2307 

ment  to  visit  the  stables,  dog  kennel,  and  other  dependencies,  in 
which  he  appeared  like  a  general  visiting  the  different  quarters 
of  his  camp;  as  the  Squire  leaves  the  control  of  all  these  mat- 
ters to  him,  when  he  is  at  the  Hall.  He  inquired  into  the  state 
of  the  horses;  examined  their  feet;  prescribed  a  drench  for  one, 
and  bleeding  for  another;  and  then  took  me  to  look  at  his  own 
horse,  on  the  merits  of  which  he  dwelt  with  great  prolixity,  and 
which,  I  noticed,  had  the  best  stall  in  the  stable. 

After  this  I  was  taken  to  a  new  toy  of  his  and  the  Squire's, 
which  he  termed  the  falconry,  where  there  were  several  unhappy 
birds  in  durance,  completing  their  education.  Among  the  number 
was  a  fine  falcon,  which  Master  Simon  had  in  especial  training, 
and  he  told  me  that  he  would  show  me,  in  a  few  days,  some  rare 
sport  of  the  good  old-fashioned  kind.  In  the  course  of  our  round, 
I  noticed  that  the  grooms,  gamekeeper,  whippers-in,  and  other  re- 
tainers, seemed  all  to  be  on  somewhat  of  a  familiar  footing  with 
Master  Simon,  and  fond  of  having  a  joke  with  him,  though  it 
was  evident  they  had  great  deference  for  his  opinion  in  matters 
relating  to  their  functions. 

There  was  one  exception,  however,  in  a  testy  old  huntsman, 
as  hot  as  a  peppercorn;  a  meagre,  wiry  old  fellow,  in  a  thread- 
bare velvet  jockey  cap,  and  a  pair  of  leather  breeches,  that,  from 
much  wear,  shone  as  though  they  had  been  japanned.  He  was 
ver}^  contradictory  and  pragmatical  and  apt,  as  I  thought,  to  dif- 
fer from  Master  Simon  now  and  then,  out  of  mere  captiousness. 
This  was  particularly  the  case  with  respect  to  the  treatment  of 
the  hawk,  which  the  old  man  seemed  to  have  imder  his  peculiar 
care,  and,  according  to  Master  Simon,  was  in  a  fair  way  to  ruin; 
the  latter  had  a  vast  deal  to  say  about  casting,  and  imping,  and 
gleaming,  and  enseaming,  and  giving  the  hawk  the  ranglc,  which 
I  saw  was  all  heathen  Greek  to  old  Christy;  but  he  maintained 
his  point  notwithstanding,  and  seemed  to  hold  all  this  technical 
lore  in  utter  disrespect. 

I  was  surprised  at  the  good  humor  with  which  Master  Simon 
bore  his  contradictions,  till  he  explained  the  matter  to  me  after- 
wards. Old  Christy  is  the  most  ancient  servant  in  the  place, 
having  lived  among  dogs  and  horses  the  greater  part  of  a  cen- 
tury, and  had  been  in  the  service  of  Mr.  Braccbridge's  father. 
He  knows  the  pedigree  of  every  horse  on  the  place,  and  has  be- 
strode the  great  grcat-grandsires  of  mf)st  of  them.  He  can  give 
a    circumstantial  detail    of   every    fox   hunt  for   the    last    sixty  or 


2308  WASrilNGTON  IRVING 

seventy  years,  and  has  a  history  for  every  stag's  head  about  the 
house  and  for  every  hunting  trophy  nailed  to  the  door  of  the  dog 
kennel. 

All  the  present  race  have  grown  up  under  his  eye,  and  humor 
him  in  his  old  age.  He  once  attended  the  Squire  to  Oxford, 
when  he  was  student  there,  and  enlightened  the  whole  imiversity 
with  his  hunting  lore.  All  this  is  enough  to  make  the  old  man 
opinionated,  since  he  finds,  on  all  these  matters  of  first-rate  im- 
portance, he  knows  more  than  the  rest  of  the  world.  Indeed, 
Master  Simon  had  been  his  pupil,  and  acknowledges  that  he  de- 
rived his  first  knowledge  in  hunting  from  the  instructions  of 
Christy;  and  I  much  question  whether  the  old  man  does  not 
still  look  upon  him  as  rather  a  greenhorn. 

On  our  return  homewards,  as  we  were  crossing  the  lawn  in 
front  of  the  house,  we  heard  the  porter's  bell  ring  at  the  lodge, 
and  shortly  afterwards  a  kind  of  cavalcade  advanced  slowly  up 
the  avenue.  At  sight  of  it  my  companion  paused,  considered  it 
for  a  moment,  and  then,  making  a  sudden  exclamation,  hurried 
away  to  meet  it.  As  it  approached  I  discovered  a  fair,  fresh- 
looking  elderly  lady,  dressed  in  an  old-fashioned  riding  habit, 
with  a  broad-briinmed  white  beaver  hat,  such  as  may  be  seen  in 
Sir  Joshua  Reynolds'  paintings.  She  rode  a  sleek  white  pony, 
and  was  followed  by  a  footman  in  rich  livery,  mounted  on  an 
over-fed  hunter.  At  a  little  distance  in  the  rear  came  an  ancient 
cumbrous  chariot,  drawn  by  two  very  corpulent  horses,  driven  by 
as  corpulent  a  coachman,  beside  whom  sat  a  page  dressed  in  a 
fanciful  green  livery.  Inside  of  the  chariot  was  a  starched  prim 
personage,  with  a  look  somewhat  between  a  lady's  companion 
and  a  lady's  maid,  and  two  pampered  curs,  that  showed  their 
ugly  faces,  and  barked  out  of  each  window. 

There  was  a  general  turning  out  of  the  garrison  to  receive 
this  nev/comer.  The  squire  assisted  her  to  alight,  and  saluted 
her  affectionately;  the  fair  Julia  flew  into  her  arms,  and  they 
embraced  with  the  romantic  fervor  of  boarding-school  friends; 
she  was  escorted  into  the  house  by  Julia's  lover,  towards  whom 
she  showed  distinguished  favor;  and  a  line  of  the  old  servants, 
who  had  collected  in  the  Hall,  bowed  most  profoundly  as  she 
passed. 

I  observed  that  Master  Simon  was  rriost  assiduous  and  devout 
in  his  attentions  upon  this  old  lady.  He  walked  by  the  side  of 
her  pony  up  the  avenue;   and,  while   she  was  receiving  the  salu- 


WASHINGTON  IRVING  2309 

tations  of  the  rest  of  the  family,  he  took  occasion  to  notice  the 
fat  coachman,  to  pat  the  sleek  carriage  horses,  and,  above  all,  to 
say  a  civil  word  to  my  lady's  gentlewoman,  the  prim,  sour-looking 
vestal  in  the  chariot. 

I  had  no  more  of  his  company  for  the  rest  of  the  morning. 
He  was  swept  off  in  the  vortex  that  followed  in  the  wake  of  this 
lady.  Once,  indeed,  he  paused  for  a  moment,  as  he  was  hurry- 
ing on  some  errand  of  the  good  lady,  to  let  me  know  that  this  was 
Lady  Lillycraft,  a  sister  of  the  Squire,  of  large  fortune,  which 
the  captain  would  inherit,  and  that  her  estate  lay  in  one  of  the 
best  sporting  counties  in  all  England. 

Complete.     From  "Bracebridge  Hall.'* 


GENTILITY 

True  Gentrie  standeth  in  the  trade 

Of  virtuous  life,  not  in  the  fleshly  line; 
For  blood  is  knit,  but  Gentrie  is  divine. 

— **  Mirror  for  Magistrates.  ** 

1HAVE  mentioned  some  peculiarities  of  the  Squire  in  the  educa- 
tion of  his  sons;  but  I  would  not  have  it  thought  that  his 
instructions  were  directed  chiefly  to  their  personal  accomplish- 
ments. He  took  great  pains  also  to  form  their  minds,  and  to  incul- 
cate what  he  calls  good  old  English  principles,  such  as  are  laid 
down  in  the  writings  of  Peachem  and  his  contemporaries.  There 
is  one  author  of  whom  he  cannot  speak  without  indignation,  which 
is  Chesterfield.  He  avers  that  he  did  much,  for  a  time,  to  injure 
the  true  national  character,  and  to  introduce,  instead  of  open 
manly  sincerity,  a  hollow  perfidious  courtliness.  **  His  maxims,'* 
he  affirms,  "  were  calculated  to  chill  the  delightful  enthusiasm  of 
youth,  and  to  make  them  ashamed  of  that  romance  which  is  the 
dawn  of  generous  manhood,  and  to  impart  to  them  a  cold  polish 
and  a  premature  worldliness. "  **  Many  of  Lord  Chesterfield's 
maxims  would  make  a  yoimg  man  a  mere  man  of  pleasure;  but 
an  English  gentleman  should  not  be  a  mere  man  of  pleasure. 
He  has  no  right  to  such  selfish  indulgence.  His  ease,  his  leisure, 
his  opulence,  are  debts  due  to  his  country,  which  he  must  ever 
stand  ready  to  discharge.  He  should  be  a  man  at  all  points; 
simple,  frank,  courteous,  intelligent,  accomplished,  and  informed; 
upright,  intrepid,  and  disinterested;    one  who  can    mingle    among 


2310  WASHINGTON   IRVING 

freemen;  who  can  cope  with  statesmen;  who  can  champion  his 
country  and  its  rights  either  at  home  or  abroad.  In  a  country- 
like  England,  where  there  is  such  free  and  unbounded  scope  for 
the  exertion  of  intellect,  and  where  opinion  and  example  have 
such  weight  with  the  people,  every  gentleman  of  fortune  and  lei- 
sure should  feel  himself  bound  to  employ  himself  in  some  way 
towards  promoting  the  prosperity  or  glory  of  the  nation.  In  a 
country  where  intellect  and  action  are  trammeled  and  restrained 
men  of  rank  and  fortune  may  become  idlers  and  triflers  with  im- 
punity; but  an  English  coxcomb  is  inexcusable;  and  this,  perhaps, 
is  the  reason  why  he  is  the  most  offensive  and  insupportable  cox- 
comb in  the  world.'* 

The  Squire,  as  Frank  Bracebridge  informs  me,  would  often 
hold  forth  in  this  manner  to  his  sons  when  they  were  about  leav- 
ing the  paternal  roof;  one  to  travel  abroad,  one  to  go  to  the 
army,  and  one  to  the  university.  He  used  to  have  them  with 
him  in  the  library,  which  is  hung  with  the  portraits  of  Sydney, 
Surrey,  Raleigh,  Wyat,  and  others.  "  Look  at  those  models  of 
true  English  gentlemen,  my  sons,"  he  would  say  with  enthusiasm; 
*^  those  were  men  that  wreathed  the  graces  of  the  most  delicate 
and  refined  taste  around  the  stern  virtues  of  the  soldier;  that 
mingled  what  was  gentle  and  gracious  with  what  was  hardy 
and  manly;  that  possessed  the  true  chivalry  of  spirit,  which  is 
the  exalted  essence  of  manhood.  They  are  the  lights  by  which 
the  youth  of  the  country  should  array  themselves.  They  were  the 
patterns  and  idols  of  their  country  at  home;  they  were  the  illus- 
trators of  its  dignity  abroad.  ^Surrey,*  says  Camden,  *was  the 
first  nobleman  that  illustrated  his  high  birth  with  the  beauty  of 
learning.  He  was  acknowledged  to  be  the  gallantest  man,  the  po- 
litest lover,  and  the  completest  gentleman  of  his  time.*  And  as  to 
Wyat,  his  friend  Surrey  most  amiably  testifies  of  him,  that  his 
person  was  majestic  and  beautiful,  his  visage  <stem  and  mild*; 
that  he  sang,  and  played  the  lute  with  remarkable  sweetness; 
spoke  foreign  languages  with  grace  and  fluency,  and  possessed  an 
inexhaustible  fund  of  wit.  And  see  what  a  high  commendation 
is  passed  upon  these  illustrious  friends:  *They  were  the  two 
chieftains,  who,  having  traveled  into  Italy,  and  there  tasted  the 
sweet  and  stately  measures  and  style  of  the  Italian  poetry, 
greatly  polished  our  rude  and  homely  manner  of  vulgar  poetry 
from  what  it  had  been  before,  and  therefore  may  be  justly  called 
the  reformers  of  our  English  poetry  and  style.*      And    Sir  Philip 


WASHIN6TbN  IRVING  2311 

Sydney,  who  has  left  us  such  monuments  of  elegant  thought  and 
generous  sentiment,  and  who  illustrated  his  chivalrous  spirit  so 
gloriously  in  the  field.  And  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  the  elegant 
courtier,  the  intrepid  soldier,  the  enterpi-ising  discoverer,  the  en- 
lightened philosopher,  the  magnanimous  martyr.  These  are  the 
men  for  English  gentlemen  to  study.  Chesterfield,  with  his  cold 
and  courtly  maxims,  would  have  chilled  and  impoverished  such 
spirits.  He  would  have  blighted  all  the  budding  romance  of 
their  temperaments.  Sydney  would  never  have  written  his  *■  Arca- 
dia,* nor  Surrey  have  challenged  the  world  in  vindication  -^  the 
beauties  of  his  ^  Geraldine.  *  These  are  the  men,  my  sons,  '*  the 
Squire  will  continue,  '^  that  show  to  what  our  national  character 
may  be  exalted,  when  its  strong  and  powerful  qualities  are  duly 
wrought  up  and  refined.  The  solidest  bodies  are  capable  of  the 
highest  polish:  and  there  is  no  character  that  may  be  wrought  to 
a  more  exquisite  and  unsullied  brightness  than  that  of  the  true 
English  gentleman.'* 

When  Guy  was  about  to  depart  for  the  army,  the  Squire  again 
took  him  aside,  and  gave  him  a  long  exhortation.  He  warned 
him  against  that  affectation  of  cold-blooded  indifference,  which  he 
was  told  was  cultivated  by  the  young  British  officers,  among  whom 
it  was  a  study  to  "  sink  the  soldier  '*  in  the  mere  man  of  fashion. 
**  A  soldier,  **  said  he,  *^  without  pride  and  enthusiasm  in  his  pro- 
fession, is  a  mere  sanguinary  hireling.  Nothing  distinguishes  him 
from  the  mercenary  bravo  but  a  spirit  of  patriotism  or  a  thirst 
for  glory.  It  is  the  fashion  nowadays,  ray  son,  '*  said  he,  "  to 
laugh  at  the  spirit  of  chivalry;  when  that  spirit  is  really  extinct, 
the  profession  of  a  soldier  becomes  a  mere  trade  of  blood.'*  He 
then  set  before  him  the  conduct  of  Edward  the  Black  Prince,  who 
is  his  mirror  of  chivalry;  valiant,  generous,  affable,  humane;  gallant 
in  the  field;  but  when  he  came  to  dwell  on  his  courtesy  toward 
his  pri.soner,  the  king  of  France, —  how  he  received  him  in  his 
tent,  rather  as  a  conqueror  than  as  a  captive,  —  attended  on  him  at 
table  like  one  of  his  retinue, —  rode  uncovered  beside  him  on  his 
entry  into  London,  mounted  on  a  common  palfrey,  while  his  pris- 
oner was  mounted  in  state  on  a  white  steed  of  stately  beauty, — 
the   tears  of  enthusiasm  stood  in  the  old  gentleman's  eyes. 

Finally,  on  taking  leave,  the  good  Squire  put  in  his  son's  hands, 
as  a  manual,  one  of  his  favorite  old  volumes,  the  "Life  of  the 
Chevalier  Bayard,"  by  Godefroy;  on  a  blank  page  of  which  he 
had  written  an  extract  from  the  "  Morte  d' Arthur,"  containing  the 


2312  WASHINGTON   IRVING 

eulogy  of  Sir  Ector  over  the  body  of  Sir  Launcelot  of  the  Lake, 
which  the  Squire  considers  as  comprising  the  excellencies  of  a 
true  soldier.  **  Ah,  Sir  Launcelot !  thou  wert  head  of  all  Chris- 
tian knights;  now  there  thou  liest;  thou  wert  never  matched  of 
none  earthly  knights-hands.  And  thou  wert  the  curtiest  knight 
that  ever  bare  shield.  And  thou  wert  the  truest  friend  to  thy 
lover  that  ever  bestrood  horse;  and  thou  wert  the  truest  lover  of 
a  sinful  man  that  ever  loved  woman.  And  thou  wert  the  kind- 
est man  that  ever  strook  with  sword ;  and  thou  wert  the  goodliest 
perse -X  that  ever  came  among  the  presse  of  knights.  And  thou 
wert  the  meekest  man  and  the  gentlest  that  ever  ate  in  hall  among 
ladies.  And  thou  wert  the  sternest  knight  to  thy  mortal  foe  that 
ever  put  spear  in  rest.^* 

Complete.     From  «  Brace  bridge  Hall.» 


FORTUNE  TELLING 

Each  city,  each  town,  and  every  village, 

Afford  us  either  an  alms  or  pillage; 

And  if  the  weather  be  cold  and  raw. 

Then  in  a  barn  we  tumble  on  straw. 

If  warm  and  fair,  by  yea-cock  and  nay-cock, 

The  fields  will  afford  us  a  hedge  or  a  hay-cock. 

— <^  Merry  Beggars. '> 

As  I  was  walking  one  evening  with  the  Oxonian,  Master  Simon, 
and  the  General,  in  a  meadow  not  far  from  the  village,  we 
heard  the  sound  of  a  fiddle,  rudely  played,  and,  looking  in 
the  direction  whence  it  came,  we  saw  a  thread  of  smoke  curling 
up  from  among  the  trees.  The  sound  of  music  is  always  attrac- 
tive; for,  wherever  there  is  music,  there  is  good  humor,  or  good 
will.  We  passed  along  a  footpath,  and  had  a  peep,  through  a 
break  in  the  hedge,  at  the  musician  and  his  party,  when  the  Ox- 
onian gave  us  a  wink,  and  told  us  that  if  we  would  follow  him 
we  should  have  some  sport. 

It  proved  to  be  a  gipsy  encampment,  consisting  of  three  or 
four  little  cabins,  or  tents,  made  of  blankets  and  sail  cloth,  spread 
over  hoops  stuck  in  the  ground.  It  was  on  one  side  of  a  green 
lane,  close  under  a  hawthorn  hedge,  with  a  broad  beech  tree  spread- 
ing above  it.  A  small  rill  tinkled  along  close  by,  through  the 
fresh  sward  that  looked  like  a  carpet. 


WASHINGTON  IK.VING  2313 

A  teakettle  was  hanging  by  a  crooked  piece  of  iron  over  a 
fire  made  from  dry  sticks  and  leaves,  and  two  old  gipsies  in  red 
cloaks  sat  crouched  on  the  grass,  gossiping  over  their  evening 
cup  of  tea;  for  these  creatures,  though  they  live  in  the  open  air, 
have  their  ideas  of  fireside  comforts.  There  were  two  or  three 
children  sleeping  on  the  straw  with  which  the  tents  were  littered; 
a  couple  of  donkeys  were  grazing  in  the  lane,  and  a  thievish- 
looking  dog  was  lying  before  the  fire.  Some  of  the  younger 
gipsies  were  dancing  to  the  music  of  a  fiddle  played  by  a  tall, 
slender  stripling  in  an  old  frock  coat,  with  a  peacock's  feather 
stuck  in  his  hatband. 

As  we  approached,  a  gipsy  gdrl  with  a  pair  of  fine  roguish 
eyes  came  up  and,  as  usual,  offered  to  tell  our  fortunes.  I  could 
not  but  admire  a  certain  degree  of  slattern  elegance  about  the 
baggage.  Her  long,  black  silken  hair  was  curiously  plaited  in 
numerous  small  braids,  and  negligently  put  up  in  a  picturesque 
style  that  a  painter  might  have  been  proud  to  have  devised. 
Her  dress  was  of  figured  chintz,  rather  ragged,  and  not  over- 
clean,  but  of  a  variety  of  most  harmonious  and  agreeable  colors; 
for  these  beings  have  a  singularly  fine  eye  for  colors.  Her  straw 
hat  was  in  her  hand,  and  a  red  cloak  thrown  over  one  arm. 

The  Oxonian  offered  at  once  to  have  his  fortune  told,  and  the 
girl  began  with  the  usual  volubility  of  her  race;  but  he  drew  her 
on  one  side,  near  the  hedge,  as  he  said  he  had  no  idea  of  hav- 
ing his  secrets  overheard.  I  saw  he  was  talking  to  her  instead 
of  she  to  him,  and,  by  his  glancing  towards  us  now  and  then, 
that  he  was  giving  the  baggage  some  private  hints.  When  they 
returned  to  us,  he  assumed  a  very  serious  air.  "Zounds!**  said 
he,  "it's  very  astonishing  how  these  creatures  come  by  their 
knowledge;  this  girl  has  told  me  some  things  that  I  thought  no 
one  knew  but  myself!** 

The  girl  now  assailed  the  General:  "Come,  your  honor,**  said 
she,  "  I  see  by  your  face  you're  a  lucky  man ;  but  you're  not  happy 
in  your  mind;  you're  not,  indeed,  sir;  but  have  a  good  heart,  and 
give  me  a  good  piece  of  silver,  and  I'll  tell  you  a  nice  fortune.** 

The  General  had  received  all  her  approaches  with  a  banter, 
and  had  suffered  her  to  get  hold  of  his  hand;  but  at  the  mention 
of  the  piece  of  silver,  he  hemmed,  looked  grave,  and,  turning  to 
us,  asked  if  wc  had  not  better  continue  our  walk.  "  Come,  my 
master,'*  said  the  girl,  archly,  "you'd  not  be  in  such  a  hurr)%  if 
-you  knew  all  that  I  could  tell  you  about  a  fair   lady  that  has  a 


2314  WASHINGTON   IRVING 

notion  for  you.  Come,  sir,  old  love  burns  strong;  there's  many 
a  one  comes  to  see  weddings  that  go  away  brides  themselves ! '' — 
Here  the  girl  whispered  something  in  a  low  voice,  at  which  the 
General  colored  up,  was  a  little  fluttered,  and  suffered  himself  to 
be  drawn  aside  under  the  hedge,  where  he  appeared  to  listen  to 
her  with  great  earnestness,  and  at  the  end  paid  her  half  a  crown 
with  the  air  of  a  man  that  has  got  the  worth  of  his  money. 

The  girl  next  made  her  attack  upon  Master  Simon,  who, 
however,  was  too  old  a  bird  to  be  caught,  knowing  that  it  would 
end  in  an  attack  upon  his  purse,  about  which  he  is  a  little  sensi- 
tive. As  he  has  a  great  notion,  however,  of  being  considered  a 
royster,  he  chuckled  her  under  the  chin,  played  her  off  with  rather 
broad  jokes,  and  put  on  something  of  the  rakehelly  air,  that  we 
see  now  and  then  assumed  on  the  stage,  by  the  sad-boy  gentle- 
men of  the  old  school.  "Ah,  your  honor,**  said  the  girl,  with  a 
malicious  leer,  "  you  were  not  in  such  a  tantrum  last  year,  when 
I  told  you  about  the  widow  you  know  who ;  but  if  you  had  taken 
a  friend's  advice,  you'd  never  have  come  away  from  Doncaster 
races  with  a  flea  in  your  ear !  ** 

There  was  a  secret  sting  in  this  speech  that  seemed  quite  to 
disconcert  Master  Simon.  He  jerked  away  his  hand  in  a  pet, 
smacked  his  whip,  whistled  to  his  dogs,  and  intimated  that  it  was 
high  time  to  go  home.  The  girl,  however,  was  determined  not 
to  lose  her  harvest.  She  now  turned  upon  me,  and,  as  I  have  a 
weakness  of  spirit  where  there  is  a  pretty  face  concerned,  she 
soon  wheedled  me  out  of  my  money,  and,  in  return,  read  me  a 
fortune,  which,  if  it  prove  true, —  and  I  am  determined  to  believe 
it, —  will  make  me  one  of  the  luckiest  men  in  the  chronicles  of 
Cupid. 

I  saw  that  the  Oxonian  was  at  the  bottom  of  all  this  oracular 
mystery,  and  was  disposed  to  amuse  himself  with  the  General, 
whose  tender  approaches  to  the  widow  had  attracted  the  notice 
of  the  wag.  I  was  a  little  curious,  however,  to  know  the  mean- 
ing of  the  dark  hints  which  had  so  suddenly  disconcerted  Master 
Simon;  and  took  occasion  to  fall  in  the  rear  with  the  Oxonian 
on  our  way  home,  when  he  laughed  heartily  at  my  questions,  and 
gave  me  ample  information  on  the   subject. 

The  truth  of  the  matter  is,  that  Master  Simon  has  met  with 
a  sad  rebuff  since  my  Christmas  visit  to  the  Hall.  He  used  at 
that  time  to  be  joked  about  a  widow,  a  fine  dashing  woman,  as 
he    privately    informed    me.     I    had    supposed    the    pleasure    he 


WASHINGTON   IRVING  23 1 5 

betrayed  on  these  occasions  resulted  from  the  usual  fondness  of  old 
bachelors  for  being  teased  about  getting  married,  and  about  flirting, 
and  being  fickle  and  false-hearted.  I  am  assured,  however,  that 
Master  Simon  had  really  persuaded  himself  the  widow  had  a  kind- 
ness for  him;  in  consequence  of  which  he  had  been  at  some  ex- 
traordinary expense  in  new  clothes,  and  had  actually  got  Frank 
Bracebridge  to  order  him  a  coat  from  Stultz.  He  began  to  throw 
out  hints  about  the  importance  of  a  man's  settling  himself  in  life 
before  he  grew  old;  he  would  look  grave  whenever  the  widow  and 
matrimony  were  mentioned  in  the  same  sentence;  and  privately 
asked  the  opinion  of  the  Squire  and  parson  about  the  prudence 
of  marrying  a  widow  with  a  rich  jointure,  but  who  had  several 
children. 

An  important  member  of  a  great  family  connection  cannot  harp 
much  upon  the  theme  of  matrimony  without  its  taking  wind;  and 
it  soon  got  buzzed  about  that  Mr.  Simon  Bracebridge  was  actually 
gone  to  Doncaster  races,  with  a  new  horse;  but  that  he  meant  to 
return  in  a  curricle  with  a  lady  by  his  side.  Master  Simon  did, 
indeed,  go  to  the  races,  and  that  with  a  new  horse ;  and  the  dash- 
ing widow  did  make  her  appearance  in  her  curricle, — but  it  was 
unfortunately  driven  by  a  strapping  young  Irish  dragoon,  with 
whom  even  Master  Simon's  self-complacency  would  not  allow  him 
to  venture  into  competition,  and  to  whom  she  was  married  shortly 
afterwards. 

It  was  a  matter  of  sore  chagrin  to  Master  Simon  for  several 
months,  having  never  before  been  fully  committed.  The  dullest 
head  in  the  family  had  a  joke  upon  him;  and  there  is  no  one 
that  likes  less  to  be  bantered  than  an  absolute  joker.  He  took 
refuge  for  a  time  at  Lady  Lillycraft's,  until  the  matter  should  blow 
over;  and  occupied  himself  by  looking  over  her  accounts,  regulat- 
ing the  village  choir,  and  inculcating  loyalty  into  a  pet  bullfinch, 
by  teaching  him  to  whistle  "God  Save  the  King." 

He  has  now  pretty  nearly  recovered  from  the  mortification; 
holds  up  his  head,  and  laughs  as  much  as  any  one;  again  affects 
to  pity  married  men,  and  is  particularly  facetious  about  widows, 
when  Lady  Lillycraft  is  not  by.  His  only  time  of  trial  is  when 
the  General  gets  hold  of  him,  who  is  infinitely  heavy  and  perse- 
vering in  his  waggery,  and  will  interweave  a  dull  joke  through 
the  various  topics  of  a  whole  dinner  time.  Master  Simon  often 
parries  these  attacks  by  a  stanza  from  his  old  work  of  "Cupid's 
Solicitor  for  Love  '* :  — 


2316  WASHINGTON   IRVING 

<*  'Tis  in  vain  to  woo  a  widow  over  long, 

In  once  or  twice  her  mind  you  may  perceive; 
Widows  are  subtle,  be  they  old  or  young, 

And  by  their  wiles  young  men  they  will  deceive.** 

Complete.     From  «Bracebridge  Hall." 


LOVE  CHARMS 

Come,  do  not  weep,  my  girl ; 

Forget  him,  pretty  pensiveness;  there  will 
Come  others,  every  day,  as  good  as  he. 

—  Sir  J.  Suckling. 

THE  approach  of  a  wedding  in  a  family  is  always  an  event  of 
great  importance,  but  particularly  so  in  a  household  like 
this  in  a  retired  part  of  the  country.  Master  Simon,  who  is 
a  pervading  spirit,  and,  through  means  of  the  butler  and  house- 
keeper, knows  everything  that  goes  forward,  tells  me  that  the 
maidservants  are  continually  trying  their  fortunes,  and  that  the 
servants'  hall  has  of  late  been  quite  a  scene  of  incantation. 

It  is  amusing  to  notice  how  the  oddities  of  the  head  of  a 
family  flow  down  through  all  the  branches.  The  Squire,  in  the  in- 
dulgence of  his  love  of  everything  which  smacks  of  old  times,  has 
held  so  many  grave  conversations  with  the  parson  at  table,  about 
popular  superstitions  and  traditional  rites,  that  they  have  been 
carried  from  the  parlor  to  the  kitchen  by  the  listening  domestics, 
and,  being  apparently  sanctioned  by  such  high  authority,  the 
whole  house  has  become  infected  by  them. 

The  servants  are  all  versed  in  the  common  modes  of  trying 
luck  and  the  charms  to  insure  constancy.  They  read  their  for- 
tunes by  drawing  strokes  in  the  ashes,  or  by  repeating  a  form 
of  words  and  looking  in  a  pail  of  water.  St.  Mark's  Eve,  I  am 
told,  was  a  busy  time  with  them, —  being  an  appointed  night  for 
certain  mystic  ceremonies.  Several  of  them  sowed  hemp  seed  to 
be  reaped  by  their  true  lovers;  and  they  even  ventured  upon  the 
solemn  and  fearful  preparation  of  the  dumb  cake.  This  must  be 
done  fasting,  and  in  silence.  The  ingredients  are  handed  down 
in  traditional  form.  **  An  eggshell  full  of  salt  an  eggshell  full  of 
malt,  and  an  eggshell  full  of  barley  meal.*'  When  the  cake  is 
ready,  it  is  put  upon  a  pan  over  the  fire,  and  the  future  husband 
will  appear,  turn  the  cake,  and  retire;    but  if   a  word  is  spoken. 


WASHINGTON    IRVING  2317 

or  a  fast  is  broken,  during  this  awful  ceremony,  there  is  no  know- 
ing what  horrible  consequences  would  ensue. 

The  experiments,  in  the  present  instance,  came  to  no  result; 
they  that  sowed  the  hemp  seed  forgot  the  magic  rhyme  that  they 
were  to  pronounce,  so  the  true  lover  never  appeared;  and  as  to 
the  dumb  cake,  what  between  the  awful  stillness  they  had  to 
keep,  and  the  awfulness  of  the  midnight  hour,  their  hearts  failed 
them  when  they  had  put  the  cake  in  the  pan;  so  that,  on  the 
striking  of  the  great  house -clock  in  the  servants'  hall,  they  were 
seized  with  a  sudden  panic,  and  ran  out  of  the  room,  to  which 
they  did  not  return  until  morning,  when  they  found  the  mystic 
cake  burned  to  a  cinder. 

The  most  persevering  at  these  spells,  however,  is  Phoebe  Wil- 
kins,  the  housekeeper's  niece.  As  she  is  a  kind  of  privileged 
personage,  and  rather  idle,  she  has  more  time  to  occupy  herself 
with  these  matters.  She  has  always  had  her  head  full  of  love 
and  matrimony.  She  knows  the  dream  book  by  heart,  and  is 
quite  an  oracle  among  the  little  girls  of  the  family,  who  always 
come  to  her  to  interpret  their  dreams  in  the  mornings. 

Durinp-  the  present  gayety  of  the  house,  however,  the  poor 
girl  has  worn  a  face  full  of  trouble;  and,  to  use  the  housekeep- 
er's words,  "has  fallen  into  a  sad,  hystericky  way  lately."  It 
seems  that  she  was  born  and  brought  up  in  the  village,  where 
her  father  was  parish  clerk,  and  she  was  an  early  playmate  and 
sweetheart  of  young  Jack  Tibbets.  Since  she  has  come  to  live  at 
the  Hall,  however,  her  head  has  been  a  little  turned.  Being  very 
pretty,  and  naturally  genteel,  she  has  been  much  noticed  and  in- 
dulged; and  being  the  housekeeper's  niece,  she  has  held  an 
equivocal  station  between  a  servant  and  a  companion.  She  has 
learned  something  of  fashions  and  notions  among  the  young  ladies, 
which  has  effected  quite  a  metamorphosis;  insomuch  that  her 
finery  at  church  on  Sundays  has  given  mortal  ofTcnse  to  her 
former  intimates  in  the  village.  This  has  occasioned  the  misrep- 
resentations which  have  awakened  the  implacable  family  pride  of 
Dame  Tibbets.  But  what  is  worse,  Pho-be,  having  a  spice  of  co- 
quetry in  her  disposition,  showed  it  on  one  or  two  occasions  to 
her  lover,  which  produced  a  downright  quarrel;  and  Jack,  being 
^  very  proud  and  fiery,  has  absolutely  turned  his  back  upon  her 
for  several  successive  Sundays. 

The  poor  girl  is  full  of  sorrow  and  repentance,  and  would 
fain  make  up  with  her  lover;  but  he  feels  his  security  and  stands 
aloof.      In  this  he  is  doubtless  encouraged  by  his  mother,  who  is 


2318  V/ASHINGTON   IRVING 

continually  reminding  him  what  he  owes  to  his  family;  for  this 
same  family  pride  seems  doomed  to  be  the  eternal  bane  of 
lovers. 

As  I  hate  to  see  a  pretty  face  in  trouble,  I  have  felt  quite 
concerned  for  the  luckless  Phoebe  ever  since  I  heard  her  story. 
It  is  a  sad  thing-  to  be  thwarted  in  love  at  any  time,  but  par- 
ticularly so  at  this  tender  season  of  the  year,  when  every  living 
thing,  even  to  the  very  butterfly,  is  sporting  with  its  mate ;  and 
the  green  fields,  and  the  budding  groves,  and  the  singing  of  the 
birds,  and  the  sweet  smell  of  the  flowers  are  enough  to  turn  the 
head  of  a  love-sick  girl.  I  am  told  that  the  coolness  of  3'-oung 
Ready  Money  lies  very  heavy  at  poor  Phoebe's  heart.  Instead 
of  singing  about  the  house  as  formerly,  she  goes  about  pale  and 
sighing,  and  is  apt  to  break  into  tears  when  her  companions  are 
full  of  merriment. 

Mrs.  Hannah,  the  vestal  gentlewoman  of  my  Lady  Lillycraft, 
has  had  long  talks  and  walks  with  Phoebe,  up  and  down  the 
avenue,  of  an  evening;  and  has  endeavored  to  squeeze  some  of 
her  own  verjuice  into  the  other's  milky  nature.  She  speaks  with 
contempt  and  abhorrence  of  the  whole  sex,  and  advises  Phoebe 
to  despise  all  the  men  as  heartily  as  she  does.  But  Phoebe's  lov- 
ing temper  is  not  to  be  curdled ;  she  has  no  such  thing  as  hatred 
or  contempt  for  mankind  in  her  whole  composition.  She  has 
all  the  simple  fondness  of  heart  of  poor,  weak,  loving  woman; 
and  her  only  thoughts  at  present  are  how  to  conciliate  and  re- 
claim her  wayward  swain. 

The  spells  and  love  charms,  which  are  matters  of  sport  to  the 
other  domestics,  are  serious  concerns  with  this  love-stricken  dam- 
sel. She  is  continually  trying  her  fortune  in  a  variety  of  ways. 
I  am  told  that  she  has  absolutely  fasted  for  six  Wednesdays  and 
three  Fridays  successively,  having  understood  that  it  was  a  sov- 
ereign charm  to  insure  being  married  to  one's  liking  within  the 
year.  She  carries  about,  also,  a  lock  of  her  sweetheart's  hair, 
and  a  riband  he  once  gave  her,  being  a  mode  of  producing  con- 
stancy in  a  lover.  She  even  went  so  far  as  to  try  her  fortune 
by  the  moon,  which  has  always  had  much  to  do  with  lovers' 
dreams  and  fancies.  For  this  purpose  she  went  out  in  the  night 
of  the  full  moon,  knelt  on  a  stone  in  the  meadow,  and  repeated 
the  old  traditional  rhyme:  — 

^*A11  hail  to  thee,  moon,  all  hail  to  thee; 
I  pray  thee,  good  moon,  now  show  to  me 
The  youth  who  my  future  husband  shall  be.*' 


WASHINGTON  IRVING  2319 

When  she  came  back  to  the  house  she  was  faint  and  pale, 
and  went  immediately  to  bed.  The  next  morning  she  told  the 
porter's  wife  that  she  had  seen  some  one  close  by  the  hedge  in 
the  meadow,  which  she  was  sure  was  young  Tibbets;  at  any  rate, 
she  had  dreamed  of  him  all  night, — both  of  which,  the  old  dame 
assured  her,  were  most  happy  signs.  It  has  since  turned  out  that 
the  person  in  the  meadow  was  old  Christy,  the  huntsman,  who 
was  walking  his  nightly  rounds  with  the  great  stag  hound;  so 
that  Phoebe's  faith  in  the  charm  is  completely  shaken. 

Complete.     From  «  Bracebridge  Hall.» 


THE    BROKEN    HEART 

I  never  heard 
Of  any  true  affection,  but  'twas  nipt 
With  care,  that,  like  the  caterpillar,  eats 
The  leaves  of  the  spring's  sweetest  book,  the  rose. 

—  Middleton. 

IT  IS  a  compion  practice  with  those  who  have  outlived  the  sus- 
ceptibility of   early  feeling,  or   have  been    brought   up   in  the 

gay  heartlessness  of  dissipated  life,  to  laugh  at  all  love  sto- 
ries, and  to  treat  the  tales  of  romantic  passion  as  mere  fictions 
of  novelists  and  poets.  My  observations  on  human  nature  have 
induced  me  to  think  otherwise.  They  have  convinced  me  that 
however  the  surface  of  the  character  may  be  chilled  and  frozen 
by  the  cares  of  the  world,  or  cultivated  into  mere  smiles  by  the 
arts  of  society,  still  there  are  dormant  fires  lurking  in  the  depths 
of  the  coldest  bosom,  which,  when  once  enkindled,  become  impet- 
uous, and  are  sometimes  desolating  in  their  effects.  Indeed,  I  am 
a  true  believer  in  the  blind  deity,  and  go  to  the  full  extent  of 
his  doctrines.  Shall  I  confess  it?  — I  believe  in  broken  hearts, 
and  the  possibility  of  dying  of  disappointed  love!  I  do  not,  how- 
ever, consider  it  a  malady  often  fatal  to  my  own  sex;  but  I  firmly 
believe  that  it  withers  down  many  a  lovely  woman  into  an  early 
grave. 

Man  is  the  creature  of  interest  and  ambition.  His  nature  leads 
him  forth  into  the  struggle  and  bustle  of  the  world.  Love  is  but 
-the  embellishment  of  his  early  life,  or  a  song  piped  in  the  inter- 
vals of  the  acts.  He  seeks  for  fame,  for  fortune,  for  space  in  the 
world's  thought,  and  dominion  over  his  fellowmen.     But  a  woman's 


2320  WASHINGTON  IRVING 

whole  life  is  a  history  of  the  affections.  The  heart  is  her  world; 
it  is  there  her  ambition  strives  for  empire, —  it  is  there  her  ava- 
rice seeks  for  hidden  treasures.  She  sends  forth  her  sympathies 
on  adventure ;  she  embarks  her  whole  soul  in  the  traffic  of  affec- 
tion; and  if  shipwrecked,  her  ease  is  hopeless, —  for  it  is  a  bank- 
ruptcy of  the  heart. 

To  a  man  the  disappointment  of  love  may  occasion  some 
bitter  pangs;  it  wounds  some  feelings  of  tenderness, —  it  blasts 
some  prospects  of  felicity;  but  he  is  an  active  being;  he  ma}^  dis- 
sipate his  thoughts  in  the  whirl  of  varied  occupation,  or  may 
plunge  into  the  tide  of  pleasure;  or,  if  the  scene  of  disappoint- 
ment be  too  full  of  painful  associations,  he  can  shift  his  abode 
at  will,  and  taking,  as  it  were,  the  wings  of  the  morning,  can  "  fly 
to  the  uttermost  parts  of   the  earth,  and  be  at  rest.^^ 

But  woman's  is  comparatively  a  fixed,  a  secluded,  and  a  medi- 
tative life.  She  is  more  the  companion  of  her  own  thoughts 
and  feelings;  and  if  they  are  turned  to  ministers  of  sorrow, 
where  shall  she  look  for  consolation  ?  Her  lot  is  to  be  wooed  and 
won;  and  if  unhappy  in  her  love,  her  heart  is  like  some  fortress 
that  has  been  captured,  and  sacked,  and  abandoned,  and  left  deso- 
late. 

How  many  bright  eyes  grow  dim, —  how  many  soft  cheeks 
grow  pale, —  how  many  lovely  forms  fade  away  into  the  tomb, 
and  none  can  tell  the  cause  that  blighted  their  loveliness!  As 
the  dove  will  clasp  its  wings  to  its  side,  and  cover  and  conceal 
the  arrow  that  is  preying  on  its  vitals, —  so  is  it  the  nature  of 
woman  to  hide  from  the  world  the  pangs  of  wounded  affection. 
The  love  of  a  delicate  female  is  always  shy  and  silent.  Even 
when  fortunate,  she  scarcely  breathes  it  to  herself;  but  when 
otherwise,  she  buries  it  in  the  recesses  of  her  bosom,  and  there 
lets  it  cower  and  brood  among  the  ruins  of  her  peace.  With  her, 
the  desire  of  her  heart  has  failed, —  the  great  charm  of  existence 
is  at  an  end.  She  neglects  all  the  cheerful  exercises  which  glad- 
den the  spirit,  quicken  the  pulse,  and  send  the  tide  of  life  in 
healthful  currents  through  the  veins.  Her  rest  is  broken, —  the 
sweet  refreshment  of  sleep  is  poisoned  by  melancholy  dreams, — 
**  dry  sorrow  drinks  her  blood,  ^'  until  her  enfeebled  frame  sinks  un- 
der the  slightest  external  injury.  Look  for  her,  after  a  little  while, 
and  you  find  friendship  weeping  over  her  untimely  grave,  and 
wondering  that  one,  who  but  lately  glowed  with  all  the  radiance 
of  health   and   beauty,    should   so    speedily  be   brought  down   to 


WASHINGTON   IRVING  232 1 

"  darkness  and  the  worm.  '^  You  will  be  told  of  some  wintry 
chill,  some  casual  indisposition,  that  laid  her  low,  —  but  no  one 
knows  the  mental  malady  that  previously  sapped  her  strength, 
and  made  her  so  easy  a  prey  to  the  spoiler. 

She  is  like  some  tender  tree,  the  pride  and  beauty  of  the 
grove;  graceful  in  its  form,  bright  in  its  foliage,  but  with  the 
worm  preying  at  its  heart.  We  find  it  suddenly  withering,  when 
it  should  be  most  fresh  and  luxuriant.  We  see  it  drooping  its 
branches  to  the  earth,  and  shedding  leaf  by  leaf;  until,  wasted 
and  perished  away,  it  falls  even  in  the  stillness  of  the  forest; 
and  as  we  muse  over  the  beautiful  ruin,  we  strive  in  vain  to 
recollect  the  blast  or  thunderbolt  that  could  have  smitten  it  with 
decay. 

I  have  seen  many  instances  of  women  running  to  waste  and 
self-neglect,  and  disappearing  gradually  from  the  earth,  almost 
as  if  they  had  been  exhaled  to  heaven;  and  have  repeatedly 
fancied  that  I  could  trace  their  deaths  through  the  various 
declensions  of  consumption,  cold,  debility,  languor,  melancholy, 
until  I  reached  the  first  symptom  of  disappointed  love.  But 
an  instance  of  the  kind  was  lately  told  to  me;  the  circumstances 
are  well  known,  in  the  country  where  they  happened,  and  I 
shall  but  give  them  in  the  manner  in  which  they  were  re- 
lated. 

Every  one  must  recollect   the  tragical    story  of   young  E , 

the  Irish  patriot;  it  was  too  touching  to  be  soon  forgotten.  Dur- 
ing the  troubles  in  Ireland  he  was  tried,  condemned,  and  exe- 
cuted, on  a  charge  of  treason.  His  fate  made  a  deep  impression 
on  public  sympathy.  He  was  so  young, —  so  intelligent, —  so  gen- 
erous,—  so  brave, —  so  everything  that  we  are  apt  to  like  in  a 
young  man.  His  conduct  under  trial,  too,  was  so  lofty  and  in- 
trepid. The  noble  indignation  with  which  he  repelled  the  charge 
of  treason  against  his  country, —  the  eloquent  vindication  of  his 
name, —  and  his  pathetic  appeal  to  posterity,  in  the  hopeless  hour 
of  condemnation,  —  all  these  entered  deeply  into  every  generous 
bosom,  and  even  his  enemies  lamented  the  stern  policy  that  dic- 
tated his  execution. 

But  there  was  one  heart,  whose  anguish  it  would  be  impossi- 
ble to  describe.  In  happier  days  and  fairer  fortunes  he  had  won 
the  affections  of  a  beautiful  and  interesting  girl,  the  daughter  of 
aJate  celebrated  Irish  barrister.  She  loved  him  with  the  disin- 
terested fervor  of  a  woman's  first  and  early  love.  When  every 
VI — 146 


2  32  2  WASHINGTON  IRVING 

worldly  maxim  arrayed  itself  against  him;  when  blasted  in  for- 
tune, and  disgrace  and  danger  darkened  around  his  name,  she 
loved  him  the  more  ardently  for  his  very  sufferings.  If,  then, 
his  fate  could  awaken  the  sympathy  even  of  his  foes,  what  must 
have  been  the  agony  of  her,  whose  whole  soul  was  occupied  by 
his  image  ?  Let  those  tell  who  have  had  the  portals  of  the  tomb 
suddenly  closed  between  them  and  the  being  they  most  loved  on 
earth  —  who  have  sat  at  its  threshold,  as  one  shut  out  in  a  cold 
and  lonely  world,  from  whence  all  that  was  most  lovely  and  lov- 
ing had  departed. 

But  then  the  horrors  of  such  a  grave!  —  so  frightful,  so  dis- 
honored! There  was  nothing  for  memory  to  dwell  on  that  could 
soothe  the  pang  of  separation, —  none  of  those  tender,  though  mel- 
ancholy circumstances,  that  endear  the  parting  scene, — nothing  to 
melt  sorrow  into  those  blessed  tears,  sent,  like  the  dews  of 
heaven,  to  revive  the  heart  in  the  parting  hour  of  anguish. 

To  render  her  widowed  situation  more  desolate,  she  had  in- 
curred her  father's  displeasure  by  her  unfortunate  attachment, 
and  was  an  exile  from  the  paternal  roof.  But  could  the  sym- 
pathy and  kind  offices  of  friends  have  reached  a  spirit  so  shocked 
and  driven  in  by  horror,  she  would  have  experienced  no  want  of 
consolation,  for  the  Irish  are  a  people  of  quick  and  generous 
sensibilities.  The  most  delicate  and  cherishing  attentions  were 
paid  her  by  families  of  wealth  and  distinction.  She  was  led  into 
society,  and  they  tried  by  all  kinds  of  occupation  and  amusement 
to  dissipate  her  grief,  and  wean  her  from  the  tragical  story  of 
her  loves.  But  it  was  all  in  vain.  There  are  some  strokes  of 
calamity  that  scathe  and  scorch  the  soul, —  that  penetrate  to  the 
vital  seat  of  happiness, —  and  blast  it,  never  again  to  put  forth 
bud  or  blossom.  She  never  objected  to  frequent  the  haunts  of 
pleasure,  but  she  was  as  much  alone  there  as  in  the  depths  of 
solitude.  She  walked  about  in  a  sad  reverie,  apparently  uncon- 
scious of  the  world  around  her.  She  carried  with  her  an  inward 
woe  that  mocked  at  all  the  blandishments  of  friendship,  and 
^^  heeded  not  the  song  of  the  charmer,  charm  he  never  so  wisely.  ^* 

The  person  who  told  me  her  story  had  seen  her  at  a  masquer- 
ade. There  can  be  no  exhibition  of  far-gone  wretchedness  more 
striking  and  painful  than  to  meet  it  in  such  a  scene.  To  find  it 
wandering  like  a  spectre,  lonely  and  joyless,  where  all  around  is 
gay, — to  see  it  dressed  out  in  the  trappings  of  mirth,  and  look- 
ing so  wan  and  woe-begone,  as  if  it    had  tried    in  vain   to  cheat 


CVASHINGTON  IRVING  23*3 

the  poor  heart  into  a  momentary  forgetfulness  of  sorrow.  After 
strolling  through  the  splendid  rooms  and  giddy  crowd  with  an 
air  of  utter  abstraction,  she  sat  herself  down  on  the  steps  of  an 
orchestra,  and  looking  about  for  some  time  with  a  vacant  air, 
that  showed  her  insensibility  to  the  garish  scene,  she  began,  with 
the  capriciousness  of  a  sickly  heart,  to  warble  a  little  plaintive 
air.  She  had  an  exquisite  voice;  but  on  this  occasion  it  was  so 
simple,  so  touching, —  it  breathed  forth  such  a  soul  of  wretched- 
ness,—  that  she  drew  a  crowd,  mute  and  silent,  around  her,  and 
melted  every  one  into  tears. 

The  story  of  one  so  true  and  tender  could  not  but  excite 
great  interest  in  a  country  remarkable  for  enthusiasm.  It  com- 
pletely won  the  heart  of  a  brave  officer,  who  paid  his  addresses 
to  her,  and  thought  that  one  so  true  to  the  dead  could  not  but 
prove  affectionate  to  the  living.  She  declined  his  attentions,  for 
her  thoughts  were  irrecoverably  engrossed  by  the  memory  of  her 
former  lover.  He,  however,  persisted  in  his  suit.  He  solicited 
not  her  tenderness,  but  her  esteem.  He  was  assisted  by  her 
conviction  of  his  worth,  and  her  sense  of  her  own  destitute  and 
dependent  situation,  for  she  was  existing  on  the  kindness  of 
friends.  In  a  word,  he  at  length  succeeded  in  gaining  her  hand, 
though  with  the  solemn  assurance  that  her  heart  was  unalterably 
another's.  " 

He  took  her  with  him  to  Sicily,  hoping  that  a  change  of  scene 
might  wear  out  the  remembrance  of  early  woes.  She  was  an 
amiable  and  exemplary  wife,  and  made  an  effort  to  be  a  happy 
one;  but  nothing  could  cure  the  silent  and  devouring  melancholy 
that  had  entered  into  her  very  soul.  She  wasted  away  in  a 
slow,  but  hopeless  decline,  and  at  length  sunk  into  the  grave,  the 
victim  of   a  broken  heart. 

It  was  on  her  that  Moore,  the  distinguished  Irish  poet,  com- 
posed the  following  lines:  — 

She  is  far  from  the  land  where  her  young  hero  sleeps, 

And  lovers  around  her  are  sighing; 
But  coldly  she  turns  from  their  gaze,  and  weeps, 

For  her  heart  in  his  grave  is  lying. 

She  sings  the  wild  song  of  her  dear  native  plains. 

Every  note  which  he  loved  awaking  — 
Ah!  little  they  think,  who  delight  in  her  strains. 

How  the  heart  of  the  minstrel  is  breaking! 


2324  WASHINGTON  IRVING 

He  had  lived  for  his  love  —  for  his  country  he  died, 
They  were  all  that  to  life  had  entwined  him  — 

Nor  soon  shall  the  tears  of  his  country  be  dried. 
Nor  long  will  his  love  stay  behind  him ! 

Oh!  make  her  a  grave  where  the  sunbeams  rest. 

When  they  promise  a  glorious  morrow; 
They'll  shine  o'er  her  sleep,  like  a  smile  from  the  west. 

From  her  own  loved  island  of  sorrow! 

Complete.     From  «The  Sketch  Book.» 


STRATFORD-ON-AVON 

Thou  soft  flowing  Avon,  by  thy  silver  stream 

Of  things  more  than  mortal  sweet  Shakespeare  would  dream; 

The  fairies  by  moonlight  dance  round  his  green  bed. 

For  hallowed  the  turf  is  which  pillowed  his  head. 

— Gar  rick. 

To  A  homeless  man,  who  has  no  spot  on  this  wide  world  which 
he  can  truly  call  his  own,  there  is  a  momentary  feeling  of 
something  like  independence  and  territorial  consequence, 
when,  after  a  weary  day's  travel,  he  kicks  off  his  boots,  thrusts 
his  feet  into  slippers,  and  stretches  himself  before  an  inn  fire. 
Let  the  world  without  go  as  it  may;  let  kingdoms  rise  or  fall;  so 
long  as  he  has  the  wherewithal  to  pay  his  bill,  he  is,  for  the 
time  being,  the  very  monarch  of  all  he  surveys.  The  armchair 
is  his  throne,  the  poker  his  sceptre,  and  the  little  parlor,  of  some 
twelve  feet  square,  his  undisputed  empire.  It  is  a  morsel  of 
certainty,  snatched  from  the  midst  of  the  uncertainties  of  life;  it 
is  a  sunny  moment  gleaming  out  kindly  on  a  cloudy  day;  and 
he  who  has  advanced  some  way  on  the  pilgrimage  of  existence, 
knows  the  importance  of  husbanding  even  morsels  and  moments 
of  enjoyment.  ^*  Shall  I  not  take  mine  ease  in  mine  inn  ?  *' 
thought  I,  as  I  gave  the  fire  a  stir,  lolled  back  in  my  elbowchair, 
and  cast  a  complacent  look  about  the  little  parlor  of  the  Red 
Horse,  at  Stratford-on-Avon. 

The  words  of  sweet  Shakespeare  were  just  passing  through 
my  mind  as  the  clock  struck  midnight  from  the  tower  of  the 
church  in  which  he  lies  buried.  There  was  a  gentle  tap  at  the 
door,  and  a  pretty  chambermaid,  putting  in  her  smiliiig  face,  in- 
quired, in  a  hesitating  air,  whether  1  had  rung.      I  understood  it 


WASHINGTON  IRVING  2325 

as  a  modest  hint  that  it  was  time  to  retire.  My  dream  of  abso- 
lute dominion  was  at  an  end;  so  abdicating  my  throne,  like  a  pru- 
dent potentate,  to  avoid  being  deposed,  and  putting  the  Stratford 
Guidebook  under  my  arm,  as  a  pillow  companion,  I  went  to  bed  and 
dreamed  all  night  of  Shakespeare,  the  Jubilee,  and  David  Garrick. 

The  next  morning  was  one  of  those  quickening  mornings 
which  we  sometimes  have  in  early  spring,  for  it  was  about  the 
middle  of  March.  The  chills  of  a  long  winter  had  suddenly  given 
way ;  the  north  wind  had  spent  its  last  gasp ;  and  a  mild  air  came 
stealing  from  the  west,  breathing  the  breath  of  life  into  nature, 
and  wooing  every  bud  and  flower  to  burst  forth  into  fragrance 
and  beauty. 

I  had  come  to  Stratford  on  a  poetical  pilgrimage.  My  first 
visit  was  to  the  house  where  Shakespeare  was  born,  and  where, 
according  to  tradition,  he  was  brought  up  to  his  father's  craft  of 
wool  combing.  It  is  a  small,  mean-looking  edifice  of  wood  and 
plaster,  a  true  nestling  place  of  genius,  which  seems  to  delight 
in  hatching  its  offspring  in  bycorners.  The  walls  of  its  squalid 
chambers  are  covered  with  names  and  inscriptions  in  every  lan- 
guage, by  pilgrims  of  all  nations,  ranks,  and  conditions,  from  the 
prince  to  the  peasant;  and  present  a  simple,  but  striking  instance 
of  the  spontaneous  and  universal  homage  of  mankind  to  the  great 
poet  of  nature. 

The  house  is  shown  by  a  garrulous  old  lady,  with  a  frosty  red 
face,  lighted  up  by  a  cold  blue  anxious  eye,  and  garnished  with 
artificial  locks  of  flaxen  hair,  curling  from  under  an  exceedingly 
dirty  cap.  She  was  peculiarly  assiduous  in  exhibiting  the  relics 
with  which  this,  like  all  other  celebrated  shrines,  abounds.  There 
was  the  shattered  stock  of  the  very  matchlock  with  which  Shakes- 
peare shot  the  deer  on  his  poaching  exploits.  There,  too,  was 
his  tobacco  box;  which  proves  that  he  was  a  rival  smoker  of  Sir 
Walter  Raleigh;  the  sword  also  with  which  he  played  Hamlet; 
and  the  identical  lantern  with  which  Friar  Lawrence  discovered 
Romeo  and  Juliet  at  the  tomb!  There  was  an  ample  supply  also 
of  Shakespeare's  mulberry  tree,  which  seems  to  have  as  extraor- 
dinary powers  of  self-multiplication  as  the  wood  of  the  true  cross; 
of  which  there  is  enough  extant  to  build  a  ship  of  the  line. 

The  most  favorite  object  of  curiosity,  however,  is  Shakespeare's 
chair.  It  stands  in  the  chimney  nook  of  a  small  gloomy  chamber, 
just  behind  what  was  his  father's  shop.  Here  he  may  many  a 
time    have    sat   when    a   boy,    watching   the    slowly  revolving  spit 


2326  WASHINGTON  IRVING 

with  all  the  longing  of  an  urchin;  or  of  an  evening,  listening  to 
the  crones  and  gossips  of  Stratford,  dealing  forth  churchyard  tales 
and  legendary  anecdotes  of  the  troublesome  times  of  England. 
In  this  chair  it  is  the  custom  of  every  one  who  visits  the  house 
to  sit;  whether  this  be  done  with  the  hope  of  imbibing  any  of  the 
inspiration  of  the  bard,  I  am  at  a  loss  to  say, —  I  merely  mention 
the  fact;  and  my  hostess  privately  assured  me  that,  though  built 
of  solid  oak,  such  was  the  fervent  zeal  of  devotees  that  the  chair 
had  to  be  new  bottomed  at  least  once  in  three  years.  It  is  worthy 
of  notice  also,  in  the  history  of  this  extraordinary  chair,  that  it 
partakes  something  of  the  volatile  nature  of  the  Santa  Casa  of 
Loretto,  or  the  flying  chair  of  the  Arabian  enchanter;  for  though 
sold  some  few  years  since  to  a  Northern  princess,  yet,  strange  to 
tell,  it  has  found  its  way  back  again  to  the  old  chimney  corner. 

I  am  always  of  easy  faith  in  such  matters,  and  am  very  will- 
ing to  be  deceived,  where  the  deceit  is  pleasant  and  costs  noth- 
ing. I  am  therefore  a  ready  believer  in  relics,  legends,  and  local 
anecdotes  of  goblins  and  great  men;  and  would  advise  all  travel- 
ers who  travel  for  their  gratification  to  be  the  same.  What  is  it 
to  us  whether  these  stories  be  true  or  false  so  long  as  we  can 
persuade  ourselves  into  the  belief  of  them,  and  enjoy  all  the 
charm  of  the  reality  ?  There  is  nothing  like  resolute  good-humored 
credulity  in  these  matters;  and  on  this  occasion  I  went  even  so 
far  as  willingly  to  believe  the  claims  of  mine  hostess  to  a  lineal 
descent  from  the  poet,  when,  unluckily  for  my  faith,  she  put  into 
my  hands  a  play  of  her  own  composition,  which  set  all  belief  in 
her  consanguinity  at  defiance. 

From  the  birthplace  of  Shakespeare  a  few  paces  brought  me 
to  his  grave.  He  lies  buried  in  the  chancel  of  the  parish  church, 
a  large  and  venerable  pile,  moldering  with  age,  but  richly  orna- 
mented. It  stands  on  the  banks  of  the  Avon,  on.  an  embowered 
point,  and  separated  by  adjoining  gardens  from  the  suburbs  of 
the  town.  Its  situation  is  quiet  and  retired;  the  river  runs  mur- 
muring at  the  foot  of  the  churchyard,  and  the  elms  which  grow 
upon  its  banks  droop  their  branches  into  its  clear  bosom.  An 
avenue  of  limes,  the  boughs  of  which  are  curiously  interlaced,  so 
as  to  form  in  summer  an  arched  way  of  foliage,  leads  up  from 
the  gate  of  the  yard  to  the  church  porch.  The  graves  are  over- 
grown with  grass;  the  gray  tombstones,  some  of  them  nearly 
sunk  into  the  earth,  are  half  covered  with  moss,  which  has  like- 
wise   tinted    the  reverend    old    building.     Small   birds   have    built 


WASHINGTON  IRVING  2327 

their  nests  among  the  cornices  and  fissures  of  the  walls,  and 
keep  up  a  continual  flutter  and  chirping;  and  rooks  are  sailing 
and  cawing  about  its  lofty  gray  spire. 

In  the  course  of  my  rambles  I  met  with  the  gray-headed  sex- 
ton, and  accompanied  him  home  to  get  the  key  of  the  church. 
He  had  lived  in  Stratford,  man  and  boy,  for  eighty  years,  and 
seemed  still  to  consider  himself  a  vigorous  man,  with  the  trivial 
exception  that  he  had  nearly  lost  the  use  of  his  legs  for  a  few 
years  past.  His  dwelling  was  a  cottage,  looking  out  upon  the 
Avon  and  its  bordering  meadows;  and  was  a  picture  of  that  neat- 
ness, order,  and  comfort,  which  pervade  the  humblest  dwellings 
in  this  country.  A  low  whitewashed  room,  with  a  stone  floor, 
carefully  scrubbed,  served  for  parlor,  kitchen,  and  hall.  Rows  of 
pewter  and  earthen  dishes  glittered  along  the  dresser.  On  an  old 
oaken  table,  well  rubbed  and  polished,  lay  the  farhily  Bible  and 
prayer  book,  and  the  drawer  contained  the  family  library,  com- 
posed of  about  half  a  score  of  well-thumbed  volumes.  An  an- 
cient clock,  that  important  article  of  cottage  furniture,  ticked  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  room;  with  a  bright  warming  pan  hang- 
ing on  one  side  of  it,  amd  the  old  man's  horn-handled  Sunday 
cane  on  the  other.  The  fireplace,  as  usual,  was  wide  and  deep 
enough  to  admit  a  gossip  knot  within  its  jambs.  In  one  corner 
sat  the  old  man's  granddaughter  sewing,  a  pretty  blue-eyed  girl, 
—  and  in  the  opposite  corner  was  a  superannuated  crony,  whom 
he  addressed  by  the  name  of  John  Ange,  and  who,  I  found, 
had  been  his  companion  from  childhood.  They  had  played  to- 
gether in  infancy;  they  had  worked  together  in  manhood;  they 
were  now  tottering  about  and  gossiping  away  the  evening  of  life; 
and  in  a  short  time  they  will  probably  be  buried  together  in  the 
neighboring  churchyard.  It  is  not  often  that  we  see  two  streams 
of  existence  running  thus  evenly  and  tranquilly  side  by  side;  it 
is  only  in  such  quiet  "bosom  scenes  >>  of  life  that  they  are  to  be 
met  with. 

I  had  hoped  to  gather  some  traditionary  anecdotes  of  the  bard 
from  these  ancient  chroniclers;  but  they  had  nothing  new  to  im- 
part. The  long  interval,  during  which  Shakespeare's  writings 
lay  in  comparative  neglect,  has  spread  its  shadow  over  history; 
and  it  is  his  good  or  evil  lot,  that  scarcely  anything  remains  to 
his  biographers  but  a  scanty  handful  of  conjectures. 

The  sexton  and  his  companion  had  been  employed  as  car- 
penters, on  the  preparations  for  the  celebrated  vStratford    jubilee, 


2328  WASHINGTON  IRVING 

and  they  remembered  Garrick,  the  prime  mover  of  the  fete,  who 
superintended  the  arrangements,  and  who,  according  to  the  sex- 
ton, was  ^*  a  short  punch  man,  very  lively  and  bustling.'^  John 
Ange  had  assisted  also  in  cutting  down  Shakespeare's  mulberry 
tree,  of  which  he  had  a  morsel  in  his  pocket  for  sale;  no  doubt 
a  sovereign  quickener  of  literary  conception. 

I  was  grieved  to  hear  these  two  worthy  wights  speak  very 
dubiously  of  the  eloquent  dame  who  shows  the  Shakespeare 
house.  John  Ange  shook  his  head  when  I  mentioned  her  valua- 
ble and  inexhaustible  collection  of  relics,  particularly  her  remains 
of  the  mulberry  tree ;  and  the  old  sexton  even  expressed  a  doubt 
as  to  Shakespeare  having  been  born  in  her  house.  I  soon  dis- 
covered that  he  looked  upon  her  mansion  with  an  evil  eye,  as  a 
rival  to  the  poet's  tomb, —  the  latter  having  comparatively  but  few 
visitors.  Thus  it  is  that  historians  differ  at  the  very  outset,  and 
mere  pebbles  make  the  stream  of  truth  diverge  into  different 
channels,  even  at  the  fountain  head. 

We  approached   the  church  through  the  avenue  of  limes,  and 

entered  by  a  Gothic  porch,  highly  ornamented  with  carved  doors 

of   massive  oak.      The    interior   is  spacious,  and   the    architecture 

and  embellishments  superior    to  those  of   most   country  churches. 

There  are  several  ancient  monuments  of  nobility  and  gentry,  over 

some  of  which  hang   funeral   escutcheons,  and   banners  dropping 

piecemeal    from    the   walls.      The   tomb  of   Shakespeare  is  in  the 

chancel.      The   place  is  solemn  and    sepulchral.      Tall  elms  wave 

before  the  pointed  windows,  and  the  Avon,  which  runs  at  a  short 

distance  from  the  walls,  keeps  up  a  low,   perpetual    murmur.      A 

flat    stone   marks   the  spot  where  the  bard  is  buried.      There  are 

four  lines  inscribed  on  it,   said  to  have  been  written   by  himself, 

and  which  have  in  them  something  extremely  awful.     If  they  are 

indeed  his  own,  they  show  that  solicitude  about  the  quiet  of   the 

grave    which    seems   natural   to    fine    sensibilities    and    thoughtful 

minds :  — 

<*  Good  friend,  for  Jesus'  sake,  forbear 

To  dig  the  dust  inclosed  here. 

Blest  be  he  that  spares  these  stones, 

And  curst  be  he  that  moves  my  bones.* 

Just  over  the  grave,  in  a  niche  of  the  wall,  is  a  bust  of  Shakes- 
peare, put  up  shortly  after  his  death,  and  considered  as  a  resem- 
blance. The  aspect  is  pleasant  and  serene,  with  a  finely  arched 
forehead;    and    I    thought    I  could   read    in  it  clear  indications  of 


WASHINGTON  IRVING  2329 

that  cheerful,  social  disposition  by  which  he  was  as  much  charac- 
terized among  his  contemporaries  as  by  the  vastness  of  his  genius. 
The  inscription  mentions  his  age  at  the  time  of  his  decease  — 
fifty-three  years;  an  untimely  death  for  the  world:  for  what  fruit 
might  not  have  been  expected  from  the  golden  autumn  of  such 
a  mind,  sheltered  as  it  was  from  the  stormy  vicissitudes  of  life, 
and  flourishing  in  the  sunshine  of  popular  and  royal  favor! 

The  inscription  on  the  tombstone  has  not  been  without  its 
effect.  It  has  prevented  the  removal  of  his  remains  from  the 
bosom  of  his  native  place  to  Westminster  Abbey,  which  was  at 
one  time  contemplated.  A  few  years  since  also,  as  some  laborers 
were  digging  to  make  an  adjoining  vault,  the  earth  caved  in,  so 
as  to  leave  a  vacant  space  almost  like  an  arch,  through  which 
one  might  have  reached  into  his  grave.  No  one,  however,  pre- 
sumed to  meddle  with  the  remains  so  awfully  guarded  by  a  male- 
diction, and  lest  any  of  the  idle  or  the  curious,  or  any  collector 
of  relics  should  be  tempted  to  commit  depredations,  the  old  sex- 
ton kept  watch  over  the  place  for  two  days,  until  the  vault  was 
finished  and  the  apeii;ure  closed  again.  He  told  me  that  he  had 
made  bold  to  look  in  a>  the  hole,  but  could  see  neither  coffin  nor 
bones;  nothing  but  dust.  It  was  something,  I  thought,  to  have 
seen  the  dust  of  Shakespeare. 

Next  to  this  grave  are  those  of  his  wife,  his  favorite  daughter 
Mrs.  Hall,  and  others  of  his  family.  On  a  tomb  close  by,  also,  is  a 
full-length  effigy  of  his  old  friend  John  Combe,  of  usurious  mem- 
ory, on  whom  he  is  said  to  have  written  a  ludicrous  epitaph. 
There  are  other  monuments  around,  but  the  mind  refuses  to 
dwell  on  anything  that  is  not  connected  with  Shakespeare.  His 
idea  pervades  the  place — the  whole  pile  seems  but  as  his  mauso- 
leum. The  feelings,  no  longer  checked  and  thwarted  by  doubt, 
here  indulge  in  perfect  confidence;  other  traces  of  him  may  be 
false  or  dubious,  but  here  is  palpable  evidence  and  absolute  cer- 
tainty. As  I  trod  the  sounding  pavement  there  was  something 
intense  and  thrilling  in  the  idea  that  in  very  truth  the  remains 
of  Shakespeare  were  moldering  beneath  my  feet.  It  was  a  long 
time  before  I  could  prevail  upon  myself  to  leave  the  place;  and 
as  I  passed  through  the  churchyard  I  plucked  a  branch  from  one 
of  the  yew  trees,— the  only  relic  that  I  have  brought  from  Strat- 
ford. 

From  « Stratford  on  Avon,»  in 
the  « Sketch  Book.» 


233° 


ANNA  BROWNELL  JAMESON 

(i 794-1 860) 

'rs.  Jameson,  whose  <<  Characteristics  of  Women  "  has  become  a 
classic,  was  born  in  Dublin,  May  17th,  1794.  Her  father,  D. 
Brownell  Murphy,  was  a  miniature-painter,  no  wealthier  than 
artists  generally  are,  and  his  daughter  began  life  at  the  age  of  six- 
teen as  a  governess  in  the  family  of  the  Marquis  of  Winchester.  In 
1825  she  married  Robert  Jameson,  a  lawyer,  with  whom  she  did  not 
live  long.  He  went  as  a  judge  to  Jamaica,  while  she  remained  at 
home  to  pursue  her  career  as  an  authoress.  Her  «  Characteristics  of 
Women  >^  appeared  in  1832,  her  « Sacred  and  Legendary  Art»  from 
1848  to  1852,  and  her  « Miscellaneous  Essays  >>  in  1846.  She  wrote 
also  « Celebrated  Female  Sovereigns »  and  a  number  of  other  works 
which  were  once  widely  read.  She  died  in  Middlesex,  England,  March 
17th,  i860. 


OPHELIA,  POOR  OPHELIA 

OPHELIA — poor  Ophelia!  O  far  too  soft,  too  good,  too  fair, 
to  be  cast  among  the  briers  of  this  working-day  world, 
and  fall  and  bleed  upon  the  thorns  of  life!  What  shall 
be  said  of  her?  for  eloquence  is  mute  before  her!  Like  a 
strain  of  sad  sweet  music,  which  comes  floating  by  us  on  the 
wings  of  night  and  silence,  and  which  we  rather  feel  than  hear 
—  like  the  exhalation  of  the  violet  dying  even  upon  the  sense  it 
charms  —  like  the  snowflake  dissolved  in  air  before  it  has 
caught  a  stain  of  earth  —  like  the  light  surf  severed  from  the 
billow,  which  a  breath  disperses  —  such  is  the  character  of 
Ophelia;  so  exquisitely  delicate,  it  seems  as  if  a  touch  would  pro- 
fane it;  so  sanctified  in  our  thoughts  by  the  last  and  worst  of 
human  woes,  that  we  scarcely  dare  to  consider  it  too  deeply. 
The  love  of  Ophelia,  which  she  never  once  confesses,  is  like  a 
secret  which  we  have  stolen  from  her,  and  which  ought  to  die 
upon  our  hearts  as  upon  her  own.  Her  sorrow  asks  not  words, 
but   tears;  and   her  madness   has  precisely  the  same    effect  that 


ANNA  BROWNELL  JAMESON  2331 

would  be  produced  by  the  spectacle  of  real  insanity,  if  brought 
before  us:  we  feel  inclined  to  turn  away  and  veil  our  eyes  in 
reverential  pity  and  too  painful  sympathy. 

Beyond  every  character  that  Shakespeare  has  drawn  (Hamlet 
alone  excepted)  that  of  Ophelia  makes  us  forget  the  poet  in  his 
own  creation.  Whenever  we  bring  it  to  mind  it  is  with  the 
same  exclusive  sense  of  her  real  existence,  without  reference  to 
the  wondrous  power  which  called  her  into  life.  The  effect  (and 
what  an  effect !)  is  produced  by  means  so  simple,  by  strokes  so 
few,  and  so  unobtrusive,  that  we  take  no  thought  of  them.  It 
is  so  purely  natural  and  unsophisticated,  yet  so  profound  in  its 
pathos,  that,  Hazlitt  observes,  it  takes  us  back  to  the  old  ballads 
—  we  forget  that,  in  its  perfect  artlessness,  it  is  the  supreme  and 
consummate  triumph  of  art. 

The  situation  of  Ophelia  in  the  story  is  that  of  a  young  girl 
who,  at  an  early  age,  is  brought  from  a  life  of  privacy  into  the 
circle  of  the  court — a  court  such  as  we  read  of  in  those  early 
times,  at  once  rude,  magnificent,  and  corrupted.  She  is  placed 
immediately  about  the  person  of  the  queen,  and  is  apparently  her 
favorite  attendant.  The  affection  of  the  wicked  queen  for  this 
gentle  and  innocent  creature  is  one  of  those  beautiful  redeem- 
ing touches,  one  of  those  penetrating  glances  into  the  secret 
springs  of  natural  and  feminine  feeling,  which  we  find  only  in 
Shakespeare.  Gertrude,  who  is  not  so  wholly  abandoned  but  that 
there  remains  within  her  heart  some  sense  of  the  virtues  she  has 
forfeited,  seems  to  look  with  a  kind  yet  melancholy  complacency 
on  the  lovely  being  she  has  destined  for  the  bride  of  her  son; 
and  the  scene  in  which  she  is  introduced  as  scattering  flowers  on 
the  grave  of  Ophelia  is  one  of  those  effects  of  contrast  in  poe- 
try, in  character,  and  in  feeling,  at  once  natural  and  unexpected 
which  fill  the  eye  and  make  the  heart  swell  and  tremble  within 
itself;  —  like  the  nightingales  singing  in  the  grove  of  the  Furies, 
in  Sophocles. 

Again,  in  the  father  of  Ophelia,  the  Lord  Chamberlain  Po- 
lonius  —  the  slTrewd,  wary,  subtle,  pompous,  garrulous  old  court- 
ier—  have  we  not  the  very  man  who  would  send  his  son  into  the 
world  to  see  all,  learn  all  it  could  teach  of  good  and  evil,  but 
keep  his  only  daughter  as  far  as  possible  from  every  taint  of 
that  world  he  knew  so  well  ?  So  that  when  she  is  brought  to 
the  court  she  seems  in  her  loveliness  and  perfect  purity  like  a 
seraph    that   had  wandered  out  of   bounds,  and    yet   breathed   on 


2332  ANNA  BROWNELL  JAMESON 

earth  the  air  of  paradise.  When  her  father  and  her  brother  find 
it  necessary  to  warn  her  simplicity,  give  her  lessons  of  worldly 
wisdom,  and  instruct  her  ^*  to  be  scanter  of  her  maiden  presence  ** ; 
for  that  Hamlet's  vows  of  love  ^^  but  breathe  like  sanctified  and 
pious  bonds,  the  better  to  beguile '>;  we  feel  at  once  that  it  comes 
too  late:  for  from  the  moment  she  appears  on  the  scene  amid 
the  dark  conflict  of  crime  and  vengeance,  and  supernatural  ter- 
rors, we  know  what  must  be  her  destiny.  Once  at  Murano,  I 
saw  a  dove  caught  in  a  tempest;  perhaps  it  was  young,  and 
either  lacked  strength  of  wing  to  reach  its  home,  or  the  instinct 
which  teaches  to  shun  the  brooding  storm;  but  so  it  was — and 
I  watched  it,  pitying,  as  it  flitted,  poor  bird!  hither  and  thither, 
with  its  silver  pinions  shining  against  the  black  thundercloud, 
till,  after  a  few  giddy  whirls,  it  fell  blinded,  affrighted,  and  be- 
wildered into  the  turbid  wave  beneath,  and  was  swallowed  up 
forever.  It  reminded  me  then  of  the  fate  of  Ophelia;  and  now 
when  I  think  of  her,  I  see  again  before  me  that  poor  dove,  beat- 
ing with  weary  wing,  bewildered  amid  the  storm.  It  is  the  help- 
lessness of  Ophelia,  arising  merely  from  her  innocence,  and 
pictured  without  any  indication  of  weakness,  which  melts  us  with 
such  profound  pity.  She  is  so  young,  that  neither  her  mind  nor 
her  person  have  attained  maturity;  she  is  not  aware  of  the  na- 
ture of  her  own  feelings ;  they  are  prematurely  developed  in  their 
full  force  before  she  has  strength  to  bear  them,  and  love  and  grief 
together  rend  and  shatter  the  frail  texture  of  her  existence,  like 
the  burning  fluid  poured  into  a  crystal  vase.  She  says  very  lit- 
tle, and  what  she  does  say  seems  rather  intended  to  hide  than  to 
reveal  the  emotions  of  her  heart;  yet  in  those  few  words  we  are 
made  as  perfectly  acquainted  with  her  character,  and  with  what 
is  passing  in  her  mind,  as  if  she  had  thrown  forth  her  soul  with 
all  the  glowing  eloquence  of  Juliet.  Passion  with  Juliet  seems 
innate,  a  part  of  her  being,  "  as  dwells  the  gathered  lightning  in 
the  cloud  *^;  and  we  never  fancy  her  but  with  the  dark  splendid 
eyes  and  Titian-like  complexion  of  the  south.  While  in  Ophelia. 
we  recognize  as  distinctly  the  pensive,  fair-haired,  blue-eyed 
daughter  of  the  north,  whose  heart  seems  to  vibrate  to  the  pas- 
sion she  has  inspired,  more  conscious  of  being  loved  than  of  lov- 
ing; and  yet,  alas!  loving  in  the  silent  depths  of  her  young  heart, 
far  more  than  she  is  loved.     ... 

When    the   heathen  would  represent  their  Jove  as   clothed   in 
all  his  Olympian    terrors,  they  mounted  him  on  the    back    of   an 


ANNA  BROWNELL  JAMESON  2333 

eagle,  and  armed  him  with  the  lightnings;  but  when  in  Holy 
Writ  the  Supreme  Being  is  described  as  coming  in  his  glory,  he 
is  upborne  on  the  wings  of  cherubim,  and  his  emblem  is  the  dove. 
Even  so  our  blessed  religion,  which  has  revealed  deeper  myster- 
ies in  the  human  soul  than  ever  were  dreamed  of  by  Philosophy 
till  she  went  hand  in  hand  with  Faith,  has  taught  us  to  pay  that 
worship  to  the  symbols  of  purity  and  innocence  which  in  darker 
times  was  paid  to  the  manifestations  of  power;  and  therefore  do 
I  think  that  the  mighty  intellect,  the  capacious,  soaring,  penetrat- 
ing genius  of  Hamlet,  may  be  represented  without  detracting 
from  its  grandeur,  as  reposing  upon  the  tender  virgin  innocence 
of  Ophelia,  with  all  that  deep  delight  with  which  a  superior  na- 
ture contemplates  the  goodness  which  is  at  once  perfect  in  itself, 
and  of  itself  unconscious.  That  Hamlet  regards  Ophelia  with 
this  kind  of  tenderness, —  that  he  loves  her  with  a  love  as  intense 
as  can  belong  to  a  nature  in  which  there  is  (I  think)  much  more 
of  contemplation  and  sensibility  than  action  or  passion, —  is  the 
feeling  and  conviction-  with  v.'hich  I  have  always  read  the  play 
of  «  Hamlet. » 

As  to  whether  the  mind  of  Hamlet  be  or  be  not  touched  with 
madness  —  this  is  anotlrer  point  at  issue  among  critics,  philoso- 
phers, aye,  and  physicians.  To  me  it  seems  that  he  is  not  so  far 
disordered  as  to  cease  to  be  a  responsible  human  being;  that 
were  too  pitiable:  but  rather  that  his  mind  is  shaken  from  its 
equilibrium,  and  bewildered  by  the  horrors  of  his  situation, — 
horrors,  which  his  fine  and  subtle  intellect,  his  strong  imagina- 
tion, and  his  tendency  to  melancholy,  at  once  exaggerate,  and 
take  from  him  the  power  either  to  endure,  or  <'by  opposing,  end 
them.'*  We  do  not  see  him  as  a  lover,  nor  as  Ophelia  first  be- 
held him;  for  the  days  when  he  importimed  her  with  love  were 
before  the  opening  of  the  drama  —  before  his  father's  spirit  re- 
visited the  earth;  but  we  behold  him  at  once  in  a  sea  of  trou- 
bles, of  perplexities,  of  agonies,  of  terrors;  without  remorse,  he 
endures  all  its'horrors;  without  guilt,  he  endures  all  its  shame, 
A  loathing  of  the  crime  he  is  called  on  to  revenge,  which  revenge 
is  again  abhorrent  to  his  nature,  has  set  him  at  strife  with  him- 
self; the  supernatural  visitation  has  perturbed  his  soul  to  its  in- 
most depths;  all  things  else,  all  interests,  all  hopes,  all  affections, 
appear  as  futile,  when  the  majestic  shadow  comes  lamenting  from 
its  place. of  torment  "to  shake  him  with  thoughts  beyond  the 
reaches  of  his  soul ! »      His  love  for   Ophelia   is  then   ranked   by 


2334  ANNA  BROWNELL  JAMESON 

himself  among  those  trivial,  fond  records  which  he  has  deeply 
sworn  to  erase  from  his  heart  and  brain.  He  has  no  thought  to 
link  his  terrible  destiny  with  hers;  he  cannot  marry  her;  he  can- 
not reveal  to  her,  young,  gentle,  innocent  as  she  is,  the  terrific 
influences  which  have  changed  the  whole  current  of  his  life  and 
purposes.  In  his  distraction,  he  overacts  the  painful  part  to 
which  he  had  tasked  himself;  he  is  like  that  judge  of  the  Areop- 
agus who,  being  occupied  with  graver  matters,  flung  from  him 
the  little  bird  which  had  sought  refuge  in  his  bosom,  and  with 
such  angry  violence,  that  unwittingly  he  killed  it. 

In  the  scene  with  Hamlet  in  which  he  madly  outrages  and 
upbraids  himself,  Ophelia  says  very  little;  there  are  two  short 
sentences  in  which  she  replies  to  his  wild,  abrupt  discourse  — 

Hamlet  —  I  did  love  you  once. 

Ophelia — Indeed,  my  lord,  you  made  me  believe  so. 
Hamlet — You  should  not  have  believed  me:   for  virtue  cannot  so 
inoculate  our  old  stock,  but  we  shall  relish  of  it.     I  loved  you  not. 
Ophelia  —  I  was  the  more  deceived. 

Those  who  ever  heard  Mrs.  Siddons  read  the  play  of  **  Hamlet  * 
cannot  forget  the  world  of  meaning,  of  love,  of  sorrow,  of  de- 
spair, conveyed  in  these  two  simple  phrases.  Here,  and  in  the 
soliloquy  afterwards,  where  she  says, — 

«And  I  of  ladies  most  deject  and  wretched, 
That  sucked  the  honey  of  his  music  vows,'* 

are  the  only  allusions  to  herself  and  her  own  feelings  in  the 
course  of  the  play;  and  these,  uttered  almost  without  conscious- 
ness on  her  own  part,  contain  the  revelation  of  a  life  of  love, 
and  disclose  the  secret  burthen  of  a  heart  bursting  with  its  own 
unuttered  grief.  She  believes  Hamlet  crazed;  she  is  repulsed, 
she  is  forsaken,  she  is  outraged,  where  she  had  bestowed  her 
young  heart,  with  all  its  hopes  and  wishes;  her  father  is  slain  by 
the  hand  of  her  lover,  as  it  is  supposed,  in  a  paroxysm  of  insan- 
ity; she  is  entangled  inextricably  in  a  web  of  horrors  which  she 
cannot  even  comprehend,   and  the  result  seems  inevitable. 

Of  her  subsequent  madness  what  can  be  said  ?  What  an 
affecting — what  an  astonishing  picture  of  a  mind  utterly,  hope- 
lessly wrecked !  —  past  hope  —  past  cure !  There  is  the  frenzy  of 
excited  passions  —  there  is  the  madness  caused  by  intense  and 
continued  thought  —  there  is  the  delirium  of  fevered  nerves:   but 


ANNA  BROWNELL  JAMESON  2335 

Ophelia's  madness  is  distinct  from  these ;  it  is  not  the  suspension, 
but  the  utter  destruction  of  the  reasoning  powers;  it  is  the  total 
imbecility  which,  as  medical  people  well  know,  too  frequently 
follows  some  terrible  shock  to  the  spirits.  Constance  is  frantic; 
Lear  is  mad;  Ophelia  is  insane.  Her  sweet  mind  lies  in  frag- 
ments before  us  —  a  pitiful  spectacle!  Her  wild,  rambling  fan- 
cies; her  aimless,  broken  speeches;  her  quick  transitions  from 
gayety  to  sadness  —  each  equally  purposeless  and  causeless;  her 
snatches  of  old  ballads,  such  as  perhaps  her  nurse  sang  her  to 
sleep  with  in  her  infancy  —  are  all  so  true  to  the  life,  that  we 
forget  to  wonder,  and  can  only  weep.  It  belonged  to  Shakes- 
peare alone  so  to  temper  such  a  picture  that  we  can  endure  to 
dwell  upon  it  — 

<<  Thought  and  affliction,  passion,  hell  itself, 
She  turns  to  favor  and  to  prettiness." 

That  in  her  madness  she  should  exchange  her  bashful  silence 
for  empty  babbling,  he.  sweet  maidenly  demeanor  for  the  impa- 
tient restlessness  that  spurns  at  straws,  and  say  and  sing  pre- 
cisely what  she  never  would  or  could  have  uttered  had  she  been 
in  possession  of  her  rea^n,  is  so  far  from  being  an  impropriety, 
that  it  is  an  additional  stroke  of  nature.  It  is  one  of  the  symp- 
toms of  this  species  of  insanity,  as  we  are  assured  by  physi- 
cians. I  have  myself  known  one  instance  in  the  case  of  a  young 
Quaker  girl,  whose  character  resembled  that  of  Ophelia,  and 
whose  malady  arose  from  a  similar  cause. 

The  whole  action  of  this  play  sweeps  past  us  like  a  torrent 
which  hurries  along  in  its  dark  and  resistless  course  all  the  per- 
sonages of  the  drama  towards  a  catastrophe  which  is  not  brought 
about  by  human  will,  but  seems  like  an  abyss  ready  dug  to  re- 
ceive them,  where  the  good  and  wicked  are  whelmed  together. 
As  the  character  of  Hamlet  has  been  compared,  or  rather  con- 
trasted, with  the  Greek  Orestes,  being,  like  him,  called  on  to 
avenge  a  crime  by  a  crime,  tormented  by  remorseful  doubts,  and 
pursued  by  distraction ;  so  to  me  the  character  of  Ophelia  bears 
a  certain  relation  to  that  of  the  Greek  Iphigcnia,  with  the  same 
strong  distinction  between  the  classical  and  the  romantic  conception 
of  the  portrait.  Iphigcnia  led  forth  to  sacrifice,  with  her  unresist- 
ing tenderness,  her  mournful  sweetness,  her  virgin  innocence,  is 
doomed  to  perish  by  that  relentless  power  which  has  linked  her 
destiny  with   crimes   and  contests  in  which   she  has  no   part  but 


2336  ANNA  BROWNELL  JAMESON 

as  a  sufferer;  and  even   so,   poor  Ophelia,    « divided   from  herself 

and    her    fair    judgment,"    appears    here    like    a    spotless    victim 

offered  up  to  the  mysterious   and  inexorable  fates. 

«  For  it  is  the  property  of  crime  to  extend  its  mischiefs  over 

innocence,   as  it  is  of  virtue  to  extend  its    blessings    over   many 

that  deserve  them  not,  while  frequently  the  author  of  one  or  the 

other  is  not,  as  far  as  we  can  see,  either  punished  or  rewarded,* 

But  there's  a  heaven  above  us! 

From  "Characteristics  of  Women. » 


^337 


JOHN   JAY 

(1745-1829) 

■OHN  Jay,  the  associate  of  Hamilton  and  Madison  in  writing  the 
essays  of  the  Federalist,  was  born  in  New  York  city,  De- 
cember 12th,  1745.  He  was  a  lawyer  of  much  ability,  and 
became  prominent  as  a  patriot  leader  in  the  early  troubles  with 
England.  From  1774  to  1779  he  represented  New  York  in  Congress. 
In  1780  he  went  as  minister  to  Spain,  and  while  abroad  served  as  one 
of  the  peace  commissioners  at  Paris  in  1782.  From  1784  to  1789  he 
was  a  member  of  the  Cabinet,  holding  the  portfolio  of  foreign  affairs. 
When  the  Supreme  Court  of  the  United  States  was  organized  in  1789, 
he  became  its  first  Chief-Justice.  In  1794  he  was  sent  abroad  as  min- 
ister to  England,  and  on  his  return  was  elected  Governor  of  New 
York,  serving  from   1795  to  1801.     He  died  May  17th,  1829. 


CONCERNING  DANGERS   FROM   FOREIGN    FORCE  AND 
INFLUENCE 

WHEN  the  people  of   America   reflect    that   the  question  now 
submitted  to  their  determination   is  one  of  the    most   im- 
portant that  has  engaged,  or  can  well  engage,  their  atten- 
tion, the  propriety  of  their  taking  a  comprehensive,  as  well   as   a 
very  serious  view  of  it,  must  be  evident. 

Nothing  is  more  certain  than  the  indispensable  necessity  of 
government;  and  it  is  equally  undeniable  that  whenever  and  how- 
ever it  is  instituted,  the  people  must  cede  to  it  some  of  their  nat- 
ural rights,  in  order  to  vest  it  with  requisite  powers.  It  is  well 
worthy  of  consideration,  therefore,  whether  it  would  conduce  more 
to  the  interest  of  the  people  of  America,  that  they  should,  to  all 
general  purpo.ses,  be  one  nation  under  one  federal  government, 
than  that  they  should  divide  themselves  into  separate  confedera- 
cies, and  give  to  the  head  of  each  the  same  kind  of  powers  which 
they  are  advised   to  place  in  one  national  government. 

'  It  has  until  lately  been  a  received  and  uncontradicted  opinion 
that  the  prosperity  of  the  people  of  America  depended   on   their 
VI— 147 


2338  JOHN    lAY 

continuing  firmly  united;  and  the  wishes,  prayers,  and  efforts,  of 
our  best  and  wisest  citizens,  have  been  constantly  directed  to  that 
object.  But  politicians  now  appear,  who  insist  that  this  opinion  is 
erroneous,  and  that,  instead  of  looking  for  safety  and  happiness 
in  union,  we  ought  to  seek  it  in  a  division  of  the  states  into  dis- 
tinct confederacies  or  sovereignties.  However  extraordinary  this 
new  doctrine  may  appear,  it,  nevertheless,  has  its  advocates;  and 
certain  characters  who  were  formerly  much  opposed  to  it  are  at 
present  of  the  number.  Whatever  may  be  the  arguments  or 
inducements  which  have  wrought  this  change  in  the  sentiments 
and  declarations  of  these  gentlemen,  it  certainly  would  not  be  wise 
in  the  people  at  large  to  adopt  these  new  political  tenets,  with- 
out being  fully  convinced  that  they  are  founded  in  truth  and 
sound  policy. 

It  has  often  given  me  pleasure  to  observe  that  independent 
America  was  not  composed  of  detached  and  distant  territories, 
but  that  one  connected,  fertile,  widespreading  country,  was  the 
portion  of  our  Western  sons  of  liberty.  Providence  has  in  a  par- 
ticular manner  blessed  it  with  a  variety  of  soils  and  productions, 
and  watered  it  with  innumerable  streams,  for  the  delight  and  ac- 
commodation of  its  inhabitants.  A  succession  of  navigable  waters 
forms  a  kind  of  chain  round  its  borders,  as  if  to  bind  it  together; 
while  the  most  noble  rivers  in  the  world,  running  at  convenient 
distances,  present  them  with  highways  for  the  easy  communica- 
tion of  friendly  aids,  and  the  mutual  transportation  and  exchange 
of  their  various  commodities. 

With  equal  pleasure  I  have  as  often  taken  notice  that  Provi- 
dence has  been  pleased  to  give  this  one  connected  country  to  one 
united  people;  and  a  people  descended  from  the  same  ancestors, 
speaking  the  same  language,  professing  the  same  religion,  at- 
tached to  the  same  principles  of  government,  very  similar  in  their 
manners  and  customs;  and  who,  by  their  joint  counsels,  arms, 
and  efforts,  fighting  side  by  side,  throughout  a  long  and  bloody 
war,  have  nobly  established  their  general  liberty  and  indepen- 
dence. 

This  country  and  this  people  seem  to  have  been  made  for 
each  other;  and  it  appears  as  if  it  was  the  design  of  Providence 
that  an  inheritance  so  proper  and  convenient  for  a  band  of  breth- 
ren, united  to  each  other  by  the  strongest  ties,  should  never  be 
split  into  a  number  of   unsocial,  jealous,   and   alien  sovereignties. 

Similar   sentiments  have   hitherto  prevailed   among  all  orders 


JOHN  JAY  2339 

and  denominations  of  men  among  us.  To  all  general  purposes 
we  have  uniformly  been  one  people.  Each  individual  citizen 
everywhere  enjoying  the  same  national  rights,  privileges,  and 
protection.  As  a  nation  we  have  made  peace  and  war;  as  a  na- 
tion, we  have  vanquished  our  common  enemies;  as  a  nation,  we 
have  formed  alliances,  and  made  treaties,  and  entered  into  various 
compacts  and  conventions  with  foreign  states. 

A  strong  sense  of  the  value  and  blessings  of  union  induced 
the  people  at  a  very  early  period  to  institute  a  federal  govern- 
ment to  preserve  and  perpetuate  it.  They  formed  it  almost  as 
soon  as  they  had  a  political  existence;  nay,  at  a  time  when  their 
habitations  were  in  flames,  when  many  of  them  were  bleeding  in 
the  field;  and  when  the  progress  of  hostility  and  desolation  left 
little  room  for  those  calm  and  mature  inquiries  and  reflections 
which  must  ever  precede  the  formation  of  a  wise  and  well-balanced 
government  for  a  free  people.  It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that 
a  government,  instituted  in  times  so  inauspicious,  should  on  ex- 
periment be  found  greatly  deficient  and  inadequate  to  the  pur- 
pose it  was  intended  to  answer. 

This  intelligent  people  perceived  and  regretted  these  defects. 
Still  continuing  no  less  attached  to  union  than  enamored  of  lib- 
erty, they  observed  the  danger  which  immediately  threatened  the 
former  and  more  remotely  the  latter;  and  being  persuaded  that 
ample  security  for  both  could  only  be  found  in  a  national  gov- 
ernment more  wisely  framed  they,  as  with  one  voice,  convened 
the  late  Convention  at  Philadelphia,  to  take  that  important  sub- 
ject under  consideration. 

This  Convention,  composed  of  men  who  possessed  the  confi- 
dence of  the  people,  and  many  of  whom  had  become  highly  dis- 
tinguished by  their  patriotism,  virtue,  and  wisdom,  in  times  which 
tried  the  souls  of  men,  undertook  the  arduous  task.  In  the  mild 
season  of  peace,  with  minds  unoccupied  by  other  subjects,  they 
passed  many  months  in  cool,  uninterrupted,  and  daily  consulta- 
tions. And,  finally,  without  having  been  awed  by  power,  or  in- 
fluenced by  any  passion,  except  love  for  their  country,  they 
presented  and  recommended  to  the  people  the  plan  produced  by 
their  joint  and  very  unanimous  counsels. 

Admit,  for  so  is  the  fact,  that  this  plan  is  only  recommended, 
not  imposed;  yet,  let  it  be  remembered  that  it  is  neither  recom- 
mended to  blind  approbation,  nor  to  blind  reprobation;  but  to 
that    sedate    and   candid  consideration,    wiiich   the   magnitude   and 


2340  JOHN  JAY 

importance  of  the  subject  demand,  and  which  it  certainly  ought 
to  receive.  But,  as  has  been  already  remarked,  it  is  more  to  be 
wished  than  expected  that  it  may  be  so  considered  and  ex- 
amined. Experience  on  a  former  occasion  teaches  us  not  to  be 
too  sanguine  in  such  hopes.  It  is  not  yet  forgotten  that  well- 
grounded  apprehensions  of  imminent  danger  induced  the  people 
of  America  to  form  the  memorable  Congress  of  1774.  That  body 
recommended  certain  measures  to  their  constituents,  and  the 
event  proved  their  wisdom;  yet  it  is  fresh  in  our  memories  how 
soon  the  press  began  to  teem  with  pamphlets  and  weekly  papers 
against  those  very  measures.  Not  only  many  of  the  officers  of 
government  who  obeyed  the  dictates  of  personal  interest,  but 
others  from  a  mistaken  estimate  of  consequences,  from  the  un- 
due influence  of  ancient  attachments,  or  whose  ambition  aimed  at 
objects  which  did  not  correspond  with  the  public  good,  were  in- 
defatigable in  their  endeavors  to  persuade  the  people  to  reject 
the  advice  of  that  patriotic  Congress.  Many,  indeed,  were  de- 
ceived and  deluded,  but  the  great  majority  reasoned  and  decided 
judiciously;  and  happy  they  are  in  reflecting  that  they  did  so. 

They  considered  that  the  Congress  was  composed  of  many 
wise  and  experienced  men.  That  being  convened  from  different 
parts  of  the  country,  they  brought  with  them  and  communicated 
to  each  other  a  variety  of  useful  information.  That  in  the 
course  of  the  time  they  passed  together  in  inquiring  into  and  dis- 
cussing the  true  interest  of  their  country,  they  must  have  ac- 
quired very  accurate  knowledge  on  that  head.  That  they  were 
individually  interested  in  the  public  liberty  and  prosperity,  and 
therefore  that  it  was  not  less  their  inclination  than  their  duty,  to 
recommend  such  measures  only,  as  after  the  most  mature  delib- 
eration they  really  thought  prudent  and  advisable. 

These  and  similar  considerations  then  induced  the  people  to 
rely  greatly  on  the  judgment  and  integrity  of  the  Congress;  and 
they  took  their  advice,  notwithstanding  the  various  arts  and  en- 
deavors used  to  deter  and  dissuade  them  from  it.  But  if  the 
people  at  large  had  reason  to  confide  in  the  men  of  that  Con- 
gress, few  of  whom  had  then  been  fully  tried  or  generally  known, 
still  greater  reason  have  they  now  to  respect  the  judgment  and 
advice  of  the  Convention;  for  it  is  well  known  that  some  of  the 
most  distinguished  members  of  that  Congress,  who  have  been 
since  tried  and  justly  approved  for  patriotism  and  abilities,  and 
who  have  grown  old  in  acquiring  political  information,  were  also 


JOHN  JAY  2341 

members  of  this  Convention,  and  carried  into  it  their  accumulated 
knowledge  and  experience. 

It  is  worthy  of  remark,  that  not  only  the  first,  but  every  suc- 
ceeding Congress,  as  well  as  the  late  Convention,  have  invariably 
joined  with  the  people  in  thinking  that  the  prosperity  of  America 
depended  on  its  Union.  To  preserve  and  perpetuate  it  was  the 
great  object  of  the  people  in  forming  that  Convention;  and  it  is 
also  the  great  object  of  the  plan  which  the  Convention  has  ad- 
vised them  to  accept.  With  what  propriety,  therefore,  or  for  what 
good  purposes,  are  attempts  at  this  particular  period  made  by 
some  men,  to  depreciate  the  importance  of  the  Union  ?  or  why  is 
it  suggested  that  three  or  four  confederacies  would  be  better  than 
one  ?  I  am  persuaded  in  my  own  mind  that  the  people  have  al- 
ways thought  right  on  this  subject,  and  that  their  universal  and 
uniform  attachment  to  the  cause  of  the  Union  rests  on  great  and 
weighty  reasons. 

They  who  promote  the  idea  of  substituting  a  number  of  dis- 
tinct confederacies  in  the  room  of  the  plan  of  the  Convention, 
seem  clearly  to  foresee  that  the  rejection  of  it  would  put  the  con- 
tinuance of  the  Union  in  -the  utmost  jeopardy;  that  certainly 
would  be  the  case;  and  I  sincerely  wish  that  it  may  be  as  clearly 
foreseen  by  every  good  citizen,  that  whenever  the  dissolution  of 
the  Union  arrives,  America  will  have  reason  to  exclaim,  in  the 
words  of  the  poet,  "  Farewell !  A  Long  Farewell,  to  all  my  Great- 
ness! ^^  PUBLIUS. 

Complete.     Number  2  of  the  Federalist. 


2342 


RICHARD   CLAVERHOUSE  JEBB 

(1841-) 

Richard  Claverhouse  Jebb,  Regius  Professor  of  Greek  at  Cam- 
bridge University,  and  member  of  Parliament,  was  born  at 
Dundee,  Scotland,  August  27th,  1841.  He  is  a  graduate  of 
Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  and  the  list  of  his  degrees  and  honors 
from  other  institutions  is  a  long  one.  Among  his  publications  are 
«The  Characters  of  Theophrastus,»  «  The  Attic  Orators, »  « Introduc- 
tion to  Homer, »  « Lectures  on  Greek  Poetry,*  "Humanism  in  Educa- 
tion,* «  Greek  Literature, »  and  «  Modern  Greece. » 

HOMER  AND  THE   EPIC 

THE  Homeric  poems  give  us  the  earliest  sketch  of  certain  po- 
litical principles  which  may  be  traced  through  every  branch 
of  the  Indo-European  family  of  nations.  Homeric  political 
life  has  three  great  elements  —  King,  Council,  and  Assembly, — 
the  germs  of  Monarchy,  Aristocracy,  Democracy.  The  Homeric 
king  {Basileus)  leads  his  people  in  war,  he  is  supreme  judge, 
and  he  takes  the  chief  part  in  public  sacrifices  to  the  gods, —  but 
only  as  the  head  of  the  family  does  in  a  private  sacrifice:  the 
king  is  not  a  priest.  He  rules  by  divine  right.  The  gods  have 
given  to  his  house  that  sceptre  which  he  received  from  his  father, 
and  which  he  will  hand  on  to  his  son.  But  his  power  is  limited 
in  three  ways.  Firstly,  he  must  obey  certain  customs  and  tradi- 
tions of  his  people,  which  form  a  body  of  unwritten  yet  positive 
law  {thcvmtcs),  and  are  the  basis  on  which  public  justice  is  ad- 
ministered. Secondly,  he  must  consult  his  Council  {Bouli)  of 
nobles  and  elders.  Thirdly,  his  proposed  measures  must  have 
the  sanction  of  his  whole  people  in  their  Assembly  {Agora).  The 
commoners  who  make  up  this  Assembly  cannot  originate  or  dis- 
cuss measures;  they  can  only  vote  Aye  or  No.  The  saucy  Ther- 
sites  in  the  « Iliad '^  attempts  to  make  a  blustering  speech,  but 
sits  down  whimpering  with  a  red  weal  on  his  back  from  the  staff 
of  Odysseus.  In  the  "Odyssey"  we  see  the  beginning  of  a  time 
when  the  Assembly  was  beginning  to  play  more  than  this  passive 


RICHARD   CLAVERHOUSE  JEBB  2343 

part,  and  when,  on  the  other  hand,  the  king's  successor  was  not 
necessarily  his  son  or  heir,  but  might  be  one  of  the  nobles  who 
were  now  more  nearly  on  a  level  with  him. 

Homeric  manners  are  the  social  side  of  Homeric  politics. 
The  public  life  is  monarchical.  The  social  life  is  patriarchal. 
As  the  king  cares  for  his  subjects,  so  the  patriarch  cares  for  his 
dependants.  The  intercourse  of  the  chiefs  is  marked  by  the 
courtesy  of  a  noble  warrior  caste,  strangely  mingled  with  brutal 
ferocity.  Achilles  is  the  model  of  Greek  knighthood.  His  re- 
ception of  King  Priam  is  worthy  of  a  knight.  Yet  even  then 
Achilles  feels  the  wild  beast  within  him;  he  dreads  lest,  at  some 
rash  word,  his  fury  should  leap  out,  and  he  should  slay  his  help- 
less old  guest.  A  tie  of  hospitality  {xenia)  or  hereditary  friend- 
ship is  held  to  exist  between  men  whose  fathers  have  entertained 
each  other,  and  this  claim  insures  a  welcome.  Hospitality  to  all 
wayfarers  is  recognized  as  a  duty,  since  "  strangers  and  beggars 
are  sent  by  Zeus  '^ ;  but  a  man  who  really  **  welcomed  all  com- 
ers **  is  named  in  the  '^  Iliad  ^^  as  if  his  virtue  were  memorable. 
Women  have  a  higher  position  and  more  freedom  than  in  the 
later  historical  age  of  Greece.  Polygamy  is  unknown  among 
Greeks,  and  there  are  few  exceptions  to  the  sanctity  of  marriage. 
The  home  life  of  King  Alcinous  and  Queen  Arete  in  the  "  Odys- 
sey'* is  like  a  modern  picture  of  fireside  happiness,  and  no  image 
of  girlhood  more  noble  or  charming  than  Nausicaa  can  be  found 
in  poetry.  A  touch  in  the  "  Iliad  '*  shows  real  feeling  for  the 
pathos  of  a  lonely  woman's  life  —  the  mention  of  the  "  true- 
hearted  toiler,  >*  working  all  day  long  "  to  win  a  scanty  wage  for 
her  children." 

The  amusements  of  a  chief's  country  life  are  hunting,  farm- 
ing, or  gardening,  playing  at  games,  such  as  throwing  the  javelin 
or  quoit,  or,  after  a  solid  but  temperate  dinner,  listening  to  the 
minstrel's  song  The  mistress  of  the  house  weaves  or  embroid- 
ers among  her  handmaids.  Queen  Arete  had  made  the  robe 
which  Nausicaa  gave  to  Odysseus;  and  the  princess  helped  her 
mother  in  household  matters,  being  in  sole  charge  of  the  wash- 
ing. Slaves  were  often  of  gentle  birth  and  nurture,  having  been 
taken  in  war  or  kidnaped  in  childhood;  the  latter  was  the  case 
with  Eumaeus,  the  trusty  swineherd  of  Odysseus;  and  we  see 
here  how  intimate  might  be  the  confidence  between  master  and 
old  retainer.  The  "Iliad'*  gives  us  some  bright  glimpses  of 
simple,  joyous  life:   the   patriarchal   chief  standing  silent,  glad  at 


2344  RICHARD  CLAVERHOUSE  JEBB 

heart,  among  his  reapers,  while  food  is  being  made  ready  under 
the  trees;  the  troop  of  vintagers  bearing  the  baskets  of  grapes 
with  dance  and  song  from  the  vineyard;  the  bridal  procession, 
with  the  marriage  hymn  sounding  and  the  bridegroom's  friends 
dancing  to  flute  and  harp,  while  the  women  stand  at  their  doors 
to  see  it  pass;  the  maidens,  with  their  fine  linen  robes  and  fair 
diadems,  the  youths  with  glossy  tunics  and  golden  swords  slung 
by  silver  belts,  dancing  to  the  minstrel's  music,  while  a  delighted 
crowd  looks  on. 

One  test  of  civilization  is  the  material  of  which  men  make 
their  implements.  Stone  comes  before  metal.  But  the  metal  age 
itself  has  periods.  In  the  first  period,  men  use  the  metals  separately, 
or  hammer  them  together,  but  do  not  know  how  to  smelt  or  fuse 
or  solder  them.  The  Homeric  poems  belong  to  the  end  of  this 
first  period.  The  next  step  is  usually  the  smelting  of  copper 
with  tin,  so  as  to  make  bronze.  The  metals  named  come  thus 
in  Homeric  order  of  value:  —  (i)  gold;  (2)  silver;  (3)  tin;  (4) 
"  cyanus  '^  (a  dark  metal,  perhaps  bronze,  hardly  blue  steel) ;  (5) 
iron ;  (6)  copper  {chalcus,  certainly  not  "  brass,  *^  i.  e. ,  copper  + 
zinc) ;  (7)  lead.  Fine  works  in  metal  are  usually  of  Phoenician 
workmanship, —  as  armor  (cuirass,  shield,  helmet), — bowls  and 
vases, —  ornamental  baskets, —  clasps,  brooches,  necklaces,  etc. 
There  is  no  money.  A  fine  can  be  paid  in  gold  and  copper; 
^'  two  talents'  weight  of  gold  '^  are  once  mentioned  as  a  gift  of 
honor;  but  oxen  are  the  only  regular  measure  of  value.  A  mad 
bargain  is  to  exchange  armor  worth  100  oxen  for  armor  worth 
9 ;  a  precious  daughter  is  one  "  who  brings  oxen  ^^  (to  her  parents, 
in  dower  from  her  suitor).  There  is  no  certain  allusion  to  writ- 
ing; in  ^^  Iliad,*  VII.  172,  the  heroes  scratch  their  marks  on  their 
lots,  and  in  VI.  172  the  ^^  signs'*  on  the  **  folded  tablet**  need 
not  be  alphabetical.  It  does  not  necessarily  follow  that  the  poet 
could  not  write  himself.  In  the  "  Odyssey  **  we  hear  of  **  profes- 
sional men  ** —  physicians,  soothsayers,  minstrels,  heralds,  artificers 
in  wood  and  metal. 

The  earth  is  imagined  as  a  sort  of  flat  oval,  with  the  river 
Oceanus  flowing  round  it.  The  poet  of  the  *^  Iliad  **  knows  the 
coasts  of  Asia  Minor  and  their  islands,  but  describes  no  scenery 
in  Greece  Proper,  and  knows  the  lands  to  east  and  south  only 
from  hearsay.  The  poet  of  the  **  Odyssey  **  had  probably  never  seen 
Ithaca  or  its  neighboring  islands,  but  knew  the  Peloponnesus  and 
the  eastern  parts  of  Greece  Proper.      Cyprus  (whence  "  copper  **) 


RICHARD   CLAVERHOUSE   JEBB  2345 

is  mentioned  in  both  poems.  The  Nile  is  ^*  the  river  Egypt.  *^ 
Egyptian  Thebes  is  the  type  of  a  rich  and  glorious  place  —  rank- 
ing with  Orchomenus  in  Boeotia  and  (for  wealth)  with  Delphi.  Its 
old  greatness  under  Rameses  was  long  past ;  Memphis  was  the  cap- 
ital when  these  poets  sang:  but  Thebes  had  been  embellished  by 
Sesonchis,  founder  of  the  twenty-second  Egyptian  dynasty,  and 
the  fame  of  his  march  into  Syria  may  have  reached  Ionian  poets 
of  930-900  B.  C.  Sidon,  capital  and  seaport  of  Phoenicia,  is  famous 
for  embroidery  and  metal  work.     Tyre  is  never  named. 

The  Greeks  themselves,  and  all  men  till  the  end  of  the  last 
century,  were  nearly  unanimous  in  believing  the  ^^  Iliad  '*  and 
the  "  Odyssey  '*  to  be  the  work  of  one  poet,  Homer.  Homer  is 
named  in  a  spurious  fragment  of  Hesiod,  but  the  earliest  authen- 
tic mention  is  in  the  philosopher  and  poet  Xenophanes,  who 
flourished  about  510  B.C.  The  name  Homerus  means  "  fitted  to- 
gether,'* and  was  the  ordinary  word  for  a  hostage,  i.  e.,  a  pledge 
agreed  upon  between  two  parties.  But  nothing  was  accurately 
known  about  his  life  or  date.  Most  opinions  placed  Homer  either 
in  the  time  when  the  Ionian  colonies  in  Asia  Minor  were  founded 
(about  1044  B.  C),  or  within  a  century  later.  The  philosopher 
Aristotle,  who  wrote  on  Homer,  and  the  Homeric  critic  Aristar- 
chus  seem  to  have  put  him  about  1044  B.  C.  The  historian  He- 
rodotus (440  B.  C),  differing  probably  from  most  of  his  own  con- 
temporaries, made  Homer,  _along  with  Hesiod,  live  as  late  as  850 
B.  C.  According  to  a  Greek  epigram.  Homer  was  claimed  as 
son  by  Smyrna,  Chios,  Colophon,  Ithaca,  Pylus,  Argos,  Athens. 
But  all  the  best  evidence  connects  Homer  with  Smyrna,  an 
originally  ^olian  city  which  afterwards  became  Ionian.  An 
ancient  epithet  for  him  is  Melesigenes,  "son  of  Meles,*  the  name 
of  a  stream  which  flowed  through  old  Smyrna,  on  the  border  be- 
tween JEoWs  and  Ionia.  This  is  significant  when  we  remember 
that  the  "  Iliad  "  is  an  Ionian  poem  on  ^olian  themes.  The  un- 
known author  of  the  **  Homeric"  hymn  to  Apollo  of  Deles  speaks 
of  himself  as  a  blind  old  man  living  in  Chios;  the  Ancients 
thought  that  this  hymn  was  by  Homer,  and  thus  the  tradition 
of  Homer's  blindness  was  perpetuated.  The  little  island  los, 
one  of  the  Cycladcs,  claimed  to  have  Homer's  grave.  The  Ho- 
meridae,  "sons  of  Homer,'*  who  claimed  to  be  descendants  of  the 
poet,  lived  in  the  Ionian  island  of  Chios.  The  art  of  epic  poetry 
was  hereditary  in  their  house,  as  poetry  and  music  and  other 
arts  often  were  in  Greek  families. 


2346  RICHARD   CLAVERHOUSE   JEBB 

Both  *  Iliad  *'  and  "  Odyssey "  had  their  first  origin  on  the 
Ionian  coast  of  Asia  Minor,  and  came  thence  to  Greece  Proper. 
The  Spartans  said  that  their  lawgiver  Lycurgus  first  brought  to 
Greece  a  complete  copy  of  the  poems,  which  he  had  got  from 
the  Creophylidae,  a  family  of  poets  in  Samos.  Athens  was  of 
small  account  when  the  ^^  Iliad *^  was  first  sung;  the  poem  mentions 
it  only  once,  as  **  a  well-built  town,**  and  the  only  one  of  Athen- 
ian warriors  who  is  mentioned  by  name  is  quite  obscure.  But 
it  was  at  Athens,  not  at  Sparta,  that  loving  care  for  the  poems 
was  first  shown  in  Greece  Proper.  The  traditions  of  this  care  re- 
fer to  the  sixth  century  B.  C,  and  connect  themselves  with  three 
names,  the  lawgiver  Solon,  the  tyrant  Pisistratus,  and  his  son 
Hipparchus.  Pisistratus,  in  the  last  period  of  his  rule 
(537-527  B.  C.)  is  said  to  have  commissioned  some  learned  men, 
of  whom  the  poet  Onomacritus  was  the  chief,  to  collect  the 
poems  of  Homer.  It  is  now  generally  believed  that  an  **  Iliad  ** 
and  an  "  Odyssey  **  already  existed  in  writing  at  that  time,  but 
that  the  text  had  become  much  deranged,  especially  through  the 
practice  of  reciting  short  passages  without  regard  to  their  con- 
text. Besides  these  two  poems,  many  other  epic  poems  or  frag- 
ments of  the  Ionian  school  went  under  Homer's  name.  The 
great  task  of  the  commission  was  to  collect  all  these  "  poems  of 
Homer  **  into  one  body.  From  this  general  stock,  they  may 
have  supplied  what  they  thought  wanting  in  the  *^  Iliad  **  and 
*  Odyssey.  "  Their  work  cannot,  in  any  case,  have  been  criti- 
cal in  a  modern  sense.  But  it  can  hardly  be  doubted  that 
some  systematic  attempt  to  preserve  ^^  the  poems  of  Homer  **  was 
made  in  the  reign  of  Pisistratus.  And  one  fact  is  certain.  In 
the  sixth  century  B.  C.  reciters  of  <*  Homeric  poems "  regularly 
competed  for  a  prize  at  the  greatest  of  Athenian  festivals,  the 
Panathenaea,  held  in  every  fourth  year. 

These  reciters  were  called  Rhapsodists.  '^  Rhapsodist  **  means 
literally  "a  stitcher  of  songs**;  hence  one  who  weaves  a  long, 
smoothly  flowing  chant,  t.  e.^  an  epic  poet,  as  chanting  his  poem 
in  a  flowing  recitative.  The  characters  of  poet  and  reciter  were 
always  united, —  first  in  the  early  minstrel;  then  in  the  hereditary 
poets,  such  as  the  Homeridae;  and  then  in  the  free  guild  of 
poets,  the  rhapsodists,  to  whom  the  name  of  Homeridae  was  ex- 
tended. But  the  early  minstrel  sang  to  the  harp ;  the  later  ^'  rhap- 
sodist **  merely  chanted,  with  a  branch  of  laurel,  the  symbol  of 
poetry,  in  his  hand.    Those  who  tell  how  the  people  in  an  Indian 


RIGHARD   CLAVERHOUSE  JEBB  2347 

village  still  hang  on  the  lips  of  him  who  recites  one  of  the 
great  Indian  epics  help  us  to  imagine  the  passionate  sympathy, 
the  tears,  the  rapture,  with  which  a  Greek  crowd  heard  it  told 
how  the  king  of  Troy  knelt  to  Achilles  in  his  tent  by  night,  or 
how  the  dying  hound  in  the  courtyard  of  Odysseus  just  lived  to 
give  a  feeble  welcome  to  the  wanderer  whom  no  one  else  knew. 

The  Homeric  poems  were  to  the  Greeks  more  than  national 
poems  have  ever  been  to  any  people.  Every  other  people,  as  it 
has  grown  older,  has  turned  away  from  the  poetry  of  its  youth, 
or  has  even  allowed  it  to  perish.  Cicero  mourns  the  loss  of 
the  early  Roman  lays;  the  English  ballads  in  Percy's  collec- 
tion are  mere  gleanings  of  a  once  great  harvest;  Walter  Scott 
was  only  in  time  to  save  relics  from  the  minstrelsy  of  the 
Border.  But  the  Honieric  poems  were  simple  and  strong  enough 
to  be  popular  early,  and  mature  enough  in  art  to  please  an  age 
of  ripe  culture.  Boys  learned  Homer  by  heart  at  school,  priests 
quoted  him  touching  the  gods,  moralists  went  to  him  for  max- 
ims, statesmen  for  arguments,  cities  for  claims  to  territory  or  al- 
liance, noble  houses  for  the- title  deeds  of  their  fame.  From  about 
450  B.  C,  <<  civic '^  or  «  public  *'  editions  were  prepared  by  various 
cities  for  their  own  use  at  public  festivals.  There  was  the  «  edi- 
tion of  Massilia,»  «  of  Chios, »  «  of  Sin6pe,»  «  of  Argos,»  «  of  Cy- 
prus, ^  **  of  Crete. "  "  Private  editions,  '^  the  work  of  individual 
revisers,  were  also  numerous.  The  most  famous  of  these  was 
that  prepared  by  Aristotle  for  his  pupil  Alexander, — known  as 
the  « Edition  of  the  Casket  '*  from  the  jeweled  case  in  which 
Alexander  is  said  to  have  carried  it  about  with  him  in  the  East. 

The  learned  study  of  Homer  at  Alexandria  reached  its 
highest  point  in  Aristarchus  (156  B.  C),  whose  revision  of  the 
text  became  the  standard  one,  and  is  mainly  the  basis  of  our 
own.  The  Alexandrian  scholars  had  no  text  as  old  as  Pisis- 
tratus,  and  knew  little  of  what  his  commission  had  done;  they 
used  mainly  the  editions  of  the  cities,  especially  Massilia,  Chios, 
and  Argos.  The  division  of  "  Iliad  '>  and  «  Odyssey  »  into  twenty- 
four  books  each  is  usually  ascribed  to  Aristarchus,  but  may  have 
been  as  old  as  350  B.  C. ;  before  the  poems  had  been  divided  by 
«  rhapsodies  »  or  short  cantos;  thus  our  Book  I.  of  the  «  Iliad  »  con- 
tained two  cantos,  "The  Anger  »  and  «  The  Plague. »  Aristarchus 
founded  a  school  of  Homeric  criticism  which  continued  pro- 
ductive till  about  200  A.  D.  All  this  work  is  now  known  only 
from  scanty  notices. 


2348  RICHARD   CLAVERHOUSE  JEBB 

Our  oldest  and  best  manuscript  of  either  poem,  the  Vene- 
ius  A  of  the  "  Iliad "  is  of  the  tenth  century,  and  was  found  at 
Venice  late  in  the  last  century,  along  with  some  scholia  or  com- 
mentaries which  are  of  value  as  preserving  remarks  of  Aristar- 
chus  and  other  Alexandrian  scholars.  Hitherto  it  had  been 
thought  that  the  text  of  Homer  had  come  down  to  us  from 
about  1000  B.  C.  It  was  now  seen  that  our  text  was  not  older 
than  the  Alexandrian  age.  The  first  printed  edition  of  Homer, 
revised  by  the  Byzantine  Demetrius  Chalkondyles  (1430-15 10), 
was  published  at  Florence  in  1488;  the  first  Aldine  Edition  at 
Venice  in   1504. 

The  belief  that  Homer  composed  both  *^  Iliad  **  and  *^  Odys- 
sey*' was  unquestioned  until  about  170  B.C.  a  grammarian  Hel- 
lanicus,  and  one  Xenon  asserted  that  Homer  was  the  author  of 
the  "  Iliad,  '*  but  not  of  the  <^  Odyssey.  '*  They  and  their  followers 
were  called  the  Separators  {cJwrizontes),  because  they  separated 
the  "Iliad,**  in  its  origin,  from  the  "Odyssey.**  As  to  their 
grounds,  we  only  know  that  one  of  these  was  the  style,  and  this 
implies  literary  study.  Old  Greece  was  uncritical,  and  believed 
strongly  in  one  author  for  both  poems.  The  mere  fact  that  a 
double  authorship  should  have  been  mooted  shows  that  there 
were  good  grounds  for  a  natural  doubt.  But  the  doubt  found 
little  acceptance.  Aristarchus  wrote  against  "  the  paradox  of 
Xenon,**  and  the  Roman  Seneca,  writing  on  "the  shortness  of 
life,**  regards  this  as  a  question  for  which  life  is  too  short. 

Early  in  the  last  century  Vico,  a  Neapolitan  (i 668-1 744), 
in  his  "  Principles  of  New  Knowledge,  **  maintained  that  the 
names  of  great  lawgivers  and  poets  of  the  Old  World  are  sym- 
bols; thus  "Homer**  is  Greek  Epic  Poetry;  "Homer's  poems** 
were  made  by  a  series  of  poets,  and  not  written  down  at  first; 
and  the  "  Odyssey  **  is  at  least  a  century  younger  than  the 
"  Iliad.  **  But  Vico  had  no  proofs.  These  were  first  offered  by 
F.  A.  Wolf  in  his  "Prolegomena**  (1795)  o^  introduction  to  his 
edition  of  Homer.  Neither  the  "  Iliad  **  nor  the  "  Odyssey,  **  he 
says,  was  originally  made  as  one  poem.  Each  has  been  put  to- 
gether from  many  small  unwritten  poems.  These,  by  different 
authors,  had  no  common  plan.  The  "  Iliad  **  and  "  Odyssey  **  were 
first  framed  from  these,  and  first  written  down,  by  the  Commis- 
sion of  Pisistratus.  Wolf's  theory  —  as  throwing  light  on  the 
origin  of  popular  poetry  generally  —  roused  enthusiasni  in  Ger- 
many, which  was  then  in  literary  revolt  from  art  to  nature. 


RICHARD   CLAVERHOUSE  JEBB  2349 

The  result  of  Homeric  study  since  Wolf  has  been,  not  to 
prove  any  precise  theory,  but  to  gain  wider  assent  for  certain 
propositions  which  narrow  the  scope  of  the  question. 

t'Tom  «  Greek  Literature.  >' 


235° 


RICHARD   JEFFERIES 

(1848-1887) 

Ihe  art  in  which  Richard  Jefferies  excelled  is  called  in  German 
«Tonkunst.»  It  has  been  so  little  practiced  among  English 
writers  that  there  is  no  English  name  for  it  except  «word 
painting, »  which  is  inadequate.  It  is  the  art  of  describing  natural 
objects  and  of  presenting  ideas  in  symphonies  and  harmonies  of  tone. 
It  need  not  be  said  that  while  poetry  depends  upon  it  for  all  its 
forms  of  expression,  it  belongs  to  prose  only  when  it  is  employed  by 
a  master  great  enough  in  his  art,  not  to  sacrifice  sense  to  sound  or 
sound  to  sense.  No  recent  writer  has  illustrated  the  possibilities  of 
this  art  better  than  Jefferies  has  done  in  his  descriptions  of  nature. 

He  was  born  in  Wiltshire,  England,  November  6th,  1848.  His  love 
of  nature  and  the  keenness  of  his  vision  for  the  infinite  art  it  mani- 
fests appeared  in  his  work  from  the  first,  but  «  Wild  Life  in  a  South- 
ern Country,  >>  which  appeared  in  1879,  is  the  first  of  his  important 
nature  studies.  He  wrote  novels  and  tales,  which  were  received  with 
some  favor,  but  the  sketches  of  life  in  the  woods  and  fields  which  he 
continued  to  write  until  his  death  (August  14th,  1887)  give  him  his 
claim  to  enduring  reputation.  As  an  observer  of  nature,  he  is  en 
titled  to  be  classed  with  John  Burroughs  in  America. 


A  ROMAN   BROOK 

THE  brook  has  forgotten  me,  but  I  have  not  forgotten  the  brook. 
Many  faces  have  been  mirrored  since  in  the  flowing  water, 
many  feet  have  waded  in  the  sandy  shallow.  I  wonder  if 
any  one  else  can  see  it  in  a  picture  before  the  eyes  as  I  can, 
bright  and  vivid  as  the  trees  suddenly  shown  at  night  by  a  great 
flash  of  lightning.  All  the  leaves  and  branches  and  the  birds  at 
roost  are  visible  during  the  flash.  It  is  barely  a  second;  it  seems 
much  longer.  Memory,  like  the  lightning,  reveals  the  pictures 
in  the  mind.  Every  curve,  and  shore,  and  shallow  is  as  familiar 
now  as  when  I  followed  the  winding  stream  so  often.  When  the 
mowing  grass  was  at  its  height  you  could  not  walk  far  beside 
the    bank;    it  grew  so  thick  and  strong  and  full  of   umbelliferous 


RICHARD   JEFFERIES  235  I 

plants  as  to  weary  the  knees.  The  life,  as  it  were,  of  the  mead- 
ows seemed  to  crowd  down  toward  the  brook  in  summer  to  reach 
out  and  stretch  toward  the  life-giving  water.  There  the  butter- 
cups were  taller  and  closer  together,  nails  of  gold  driven  so  thickly 
that  the  true  surface  was  not  visible.  Countless  rootlets  drew  up 
the  richness  of  the  earth  like  miners  in  the  darkness,  throwing 
their  petals  of  yellow  ore  broadcast  above  them.  With  their  full- 
ness of  leaves  the  hawthorn  bushes  grow  larger  —  the  trees  ex- 
tend further  —  and  thus  overhung  with  leaf  and  branch,  and  closely 
set  about  by  grass  and  plant,  the  brook  disappeared  only  a  little 
way  off,  and  could  not  have  been  known  from  a  mound  and 
hedge.  It  was  lost  in  the  plain  of  meads  —  the  flowers  alone  saw 
its  sparkle. 

Hidden  in  those  bushes  and  tall  grasses,  high  in  the  trees  and 

low  on  the  ground,  there  were  the  nests  of  happy  birds.     In  the 

hawthorns   blackbirds  and   thrushes   built,  often   overhanging   the 

stream,  and   the  fledgelings   fluttered  out  into  the   flowery  grass. 

Down  among   the    stalks  of   the   umbelHferous  plants,  where   the 

grasses   were   knotted    together,  the   nettle-creeper  concealed   her 

treasure,  having  selected  a  liollow  by  the  bank  so  that  the  scythe 

should  pass  over.      Up  in  the  pollard  ashes  and  willows,  here  and 

there,  wood  pigeons  built.      Doves  cooed  in  the  little  wooden  in- 

closures  where  the   brook    curved    almost   round    upon    itself.      If 

there  was  a  hollow  in   the   oak  a  pair  of   starlings   chose   it,  for 

there  was  no  advantageous   nook    that  was  not    seized    on.      Low 

beside  the  willow  stoles  the  sedge  reedlings  built;   on  the  ledges 

of   the  ditches,  full  of  flags,  moor  hens  made  their  nests.     After 

the  swallows  had  coursed  long  miles  over  the  meads  to  and   fro, 

they  rested  on  the  tops  of  the  ashes  and  twittered  sweetly.     Like 

the   flowers  and   grass,  the  birds  were  drawn  toward   the   brook. 

They   built    by   it,  they  came   to   it   to   drink;   in   the   evening  a 

grasshopper  lark  trilled  in  a  hawthorn  bush.     By  night,  crossing 

the   footbridge,  a  star  sometimes  shone  in    the  water  under  foot. 

At   morn    and  even    the   peasant  girls   came  down   to   dip;   their 

path  was  worn   through   the  mowing  grass,  and   there  was  a  flat 

stone  let  into  the  bank  as  a  step  to  stand  on.     Though  they  were 

poorly  habited,  without  one  line  of  form  or  tint  of  color  that  could 

please  the  eye,  there  is  something  in  dipping  water  that  is  Greek 

—  Homeric  — something  that  carries  the  mind  home    to  primitive 

times.     Always  the  little  children  came  with  them;  they  too  loved 

the  brook  like  the  grass  and  the  birds.     They  wanted  to  see  the 


2352  RICHARD  JEFPERIES 

fishes  dart  away  and  hide  in  the  green  flags;  they  flung  daisies 
and  buttercups  into  the  stream  to  float  and  catch  awhile  at  the 
flags,  and  float  again  and  pass  away,  like  the  friends  of  our  boy- 
hood, out  of  sight.  Where  there  was  pasture  roan  cattle  came 
to  drink,  and  horses,  restless  horses,  stood  for  hours  by  the  edge 
under  the  shade  of  ash  trees.  With  what  joy  the  spaniel  plunged 
in,  straight  from  the  bank  out  among  the  flags  —  you  could  mark 
his  course  by  seeing  their  tips  bend  as  he  brushed  them  in 
swimming.     All  life  loved  the  brook. 

Far  down  away  from  the  roads  and  hamlets  there  was  a  small 
orchard  on  the  very  bank  of  the  stream,  and  just  before  the  grass 
grew  too  high  to  walk  through  I  looked  in  the  inclosure  to  speak 
to  its  owner.  He  was  busy  with  his  spade  at  a  strip  of  garden, 
and  grumbled  that  the  hares  would  not  let  it  alone,  with  all  that 
stretch  of  grass  to  feed  on.  Nor  would  the  rooks,  and  the  moor 
hens  ran  over  it,  and  the  water  rats  burrowed ;  the  wood  pigeons 
would  have  the  peas,  and  there  was  no  rest  from  them  all.  While 
he  talked  and  talked,  far  from  the  object  in  hand,  as  aged  peo- 
ple will,  I  thought  how  the  apple  tree  in  blossom  before  us  cared 
little  enough  who  saw  its  glory.  The  branches  were  in  bloom 
everywhere,  at  the  top  as  well  as  at  the  side, — at  the  top  where 
no  one  could  see  them  but  the  swallows.  They  did  not  grow  for 
human  admiration:  that  was  not  their  purpose;  that  is  our  affair 
only  —  we  bring  the  thought  to  the  tree.  On  a  short  branch  low 
down  the  trunk  there  hung  the  weather-beaten  and  broken  handle 
of  an  earthenware  vessel;  the  old  man  said  it  was  a  jug,  one  of 
the  old  folk's  jugs, —  he  often  dug  them  up.  Some  were  cracked, 
some  nearly  perfect;  lots  of  them  had  been  thrown  out  to  mend 
the  lane.  There  were  some  chips  among  the  heap  of  weeds 
yonder.  These  fragments  were  the  remains  of  Anglo-Roman  pot- 
tery. Coins  had  been  found  —  half  a  gallon  of  them  —  the  chil- 
dren had  had  most.  He  took  one  from  his  pocket,  dug  up  that 
morning;  they  were  of  no  value, —  they  would  not  ring.  The 
laborers  tried  to  get  some  ale  for  them,  but  could  not;  no  one 
would  take  the  little  brass  things.  That  was  all  he  knew  of  the 
Caesars:  the  apples  were  in  fine  bloom  now,  weren't  they? 

Fifteen  centuries  before  there  had  been  a  Roman  station  at 
the  spot  where  the  lane  crossed  the  brook.  There  the  centurions 
rested  their  troops  after  their  weary  march  across  the  downs,  for 
the  lane,  now  bramble-grown  and  full  of  ruts,  was  then  a  Roman 
road.     There  were  villas,  and  baths,  and  fortifications;  these  things 


RICHARD  JEFFERIES  2353 

you  may  read  about  in  books.  They  are  lost  now  in  the  hedges, 
under  the  flowering  grass,  in  the  ash  copses,  all  forgotten  in  the 
lane,  and  along  the  footpath  where  the  June  roses  will  bloom 
after  the  apple  blossom  has  dropped.  But  just  where  the  ancient 
military  way  crosses  the  brook,  there  grow  the  finest,  the  largest, 
the  bluest,  and  most  lovely  forget-me-nots  that  ever  lover  gath- 
ered for  his  lady. 

The  old  man,  seeing  my  interest  in  the  fragments  of  pottery, 
wished  to  show  me  something  of  a  different  kind  lately  discovered. 
He  led  me  to  a  spot  where  the  brook  was  deep,  and  had  some- 
what undermined  the  edge.  A  horse  trying  to  drink  there  had 
pushed  a  quantity  of  earth  into  the  stream  and  exposed  a  human 
skeleton  lying  within  a  few  inches  of  the  water.  Then  I  looked 
up  the  stream  and  remerrbered  the  buttercups  and  tall  grasses, 
the  flowers  that  crowded  down  to  the  edge;  I  remembered  the 
nests,  and  the  dove  cooing;  the  girls  that  came  down  to  dip,  the 
children  who  cast  their  flowers  to  float  away.  The  wind  blew 
the  loose  apple  bloom  and  it  fell  in  showers  of  painted  snow. 
Sweetly  the  greenfinches  were  calling  in  the  trees;  afar  the  voice 
of  the  cuckoo  came  over  the  oaks.  By  the  side  of  the  living 
water,  the  water  that  all  things  rejoiced  in,  near  to  its  gentle 
sound,  and  the  sparkle  of  sunshine  on  it,  had  lain  this  sorrowful 

thing. 

Complete.     From  «Bits  of  Oak  Bark.» 
VI — 148 


2354 


THOMAS  JEFFERSON 

(1743-1826) 

[efferson  wrote  several  essays  in  the  artistic  form  Aristotle  in- 
sists on  for  a  poem  —  with  a  beginning,  a  middle,  and  an 
end.  But  it  was  an  accident.  He  was  a  great  artist  in  the 
construction  of  state  papers.  The  Declaration  of  Independence  has 
no  equal  as  a  piece  of  composition  among  the  state  papers  of  any 
other  country.  In  America  its  only  rival  is  Washington's  Farewell 
Address  and  its  only  superior  Jefferson's  own  First  Inaugural  Address. 
As  a  writer  of  political  letters,  Jefferson  is  so  easily  first  that  he  has 
no  good  second.  He  had  an  almost  incomparable  genius  for  working 
through  others,  and  he  made  letter  writing  the  means  of  exercising 
it.  His  letters  mount  from  the  hundreds  into  the  thousands,  and  the 
style  he  gets  from  his  correspondence  appears  in  his  more  formal 
writing.  In  his  "Notes  on  Virginia, >>  however,  he  frequently  approxi- 
mates the  essay,  and  once  or  twice  achieves  it  in  due  form.  But  in 
everything  except  his  state  papers,  he  is  obviously  careless  of  form; 
while  over  and  above  the  form  in  whatever  he  writes  are  the  ideas 
which  have  worked  in  all  the  ferment  of  eighteenth  and  nineteenth 
century  politics. 


TRUTH  AND  TOLERATION  AGAINST  ERROR 

THE  first  settlers  in  this  country  were  emigrants  from  England, 
of  the  English  Church,  just  at  a  point  of  time  when  it  was 
flushed  with  complete  victor)^  over  the  religious  of  all  other 
persuasions.  Possessed,  as  they  became,  of  the  powers  of  mak- 
ing, administering,  and  executing  the  laws,  they  showed  equal  in- 
tolerance in  this  country  with  their  Presbyterian  brethren,  who 
had  emigrated  to  the  northern  government.  The  poor  Quakers 
were  flying  from  persecution  in  England.  They  cast  their  eyes 
on  these  new  countries  as  asylums  of  civil  and  religious  free- 
dom ;  but  they  found  them  free  only  for  the  reigning  sect.  Sev- 
eral acts  of  the  Virginia  Assembly  of  1659,  1662,  and  1693,  had 
made  it  penal  in  parents  to  refuse  to  have  their  children  bap- 
tized; had   prohibited   the   unlawful   assembling  of   Quakers;  had 


THOMAS  JEFPERSOf^  2355 

made  it  penal  for  any  master  of  a  vessel  to  bring  a  Quaker  into 
the  State;  had  ordered  those  already  here,  and  such  as  should 
come  thereafter,  to  be  imprisoned  till  they  should  abjure  the 
country;  provided  a  milder  punishment  for  their  first  and  second 
return,  but  death  for  their  third;  had  inhibited  all  persons  from 
suffering-  their  meetings  in  or  near  their  houses,  entertaining  them 
individually,  or  disposing  of  books  which  supported  their  tenets. 
If  no  execution  took  place  here,  as  did  in  New  England,  it  was 
not  owing  to  the  moderation  of  the  Church,  or  spirit  of  the  leg- 
islature, as  may  be  inferred  from  the  law  itself;  but  to  historical 
circumstances  which  have  not  been  handed  down  to  us.  The 
Anglicans  retained  full  possession  of  the  country  about  a  cen- 
tury. Other  opinions  began  then  to  creep  in,  and  the  great  care 
of  the  government  to  support  their  own  church  having  begotten 
an  equal  degree  of  indole  ice  in  its  clergy,  two-thirds  of  the  peo- 
ple had  become  dissenters  at  the  commencement  of  the  present 
revolution.  The  laws,  indeed,  were  still  oppressive  on  them,  but 
the  spirit  of  the  one  party  had  subsided  into  moderation,  and  of 
the  other  had  risen  to  a  degree  of  determination  which  com- 
manded respect. 

The  present  state  of  our  laws  on  the  subject  of  religion  is 
this.  The  convention  of  May,  1776,  in  their  declaration  of  rights, 
declared  it  to  be  a  truth,  and  a  natural  right,  that  the  exercise 
of  religion  should  be  free;  but  when  they  proceeded  to  form  on 
that  declaration  the  ordinance  of  government,  instead  of  taking 
up  every  principle  declared  in  the  bill  of  rights,  and  guarding  it 
by  legislative  sanction,  they  passed  over  that  which  asserted  our 
religious  rights,  leaving  them  as  they  found  them.  The  same  con- 
vention, however,  when  they  met  as  a  member  of  the  general  as- 
sembly in  October,  1776,  repealed  all  acts  of  parliament  which 
had  rendered  criminal  the  maintaining  any  opinions  in  matters 
of  religion,  the  forbearing  to  repair  to  church,  and  the  exercising 
any  mode  of  worship;  and  suspended  the  laws  giving  salaries  to 
the  clergy,  which  suspension  was  made  perpetual  in  October, 
1779.  Statutory  oppressions  in  religion  being  thus  wiped  away,  we 
remain  at  present  under  those  only  imposed  by  the  common  law, 
or  by  our  own  acts  of  assembly.  At  the  common  law,  heresy 
was  a  capital  offense,  punishable  by  burning.  Its  definition  was 
left  to  the  ecclesiastical  judges,  before  whom  the  conviction  was,  till 
the  statute  of  the  First  Elizabeth,  c,  i,  circumscribed  it,  by  declar- 
ing that  nothing  should  be  deemed  heresy,  but  what  had  been  so 


2356  THOMAS  JEFFERSON 

determined  by  authority  of  the  canonical  Scriptures,  or  by  one 
of  the  first  four  general  councils,  or  by  other  council,  having  for 
the  grounds  of  their  declaration  the  express  and  plain  words  of 
the  Scriptures.  Heresy,  thus  circumscribed,  being  an  offense 
against  the  common  law,  our  act  of  assembly,  of  October,  1777,  c. 
17,  gives  cognizance  of  it  to  the  general  court,  by  declaring  that 
the  jurisdiction  of  that  court  shall  be  general  in  all  matters  at 
the  common  law.  The  execution  is  by  the  writ  De  hceretico  coin- 
bur  endo.  By  our  own  act  of  assembly  of  1705,  c.  30,  if  a  person 
brought  up  in  the  Christian  religion  denies  the  being  of  a  God, 
or  the  Trinity,  or  asserts  there  are  more  gods  than  one,  or  de- 
nies the  Christian  religion  to  be  true,  or  the  Scriptures  to  be  of 
divine  authority,  he  is  punishable  on  the  first  offense  by  incapac- 
ity to  hold  any  office  or  employment  ecclesiastical,  civil,  or  mili- 
tary; on  the  second  by  disability  to  sue,  to  take  any  gift  or  leg- 
acy, to  be  guardian,  executor,  or  administrator,  and  by  three  years' 
imprisonment  without  bail.  A  father's  right  to  the  custody  of 
his  own  children  being  founded  in  law  on  his  right  of  guardian- 
ship, this  being  taken  away,  they  may  of  course  be  severed  from 
him,  and  put  by  the  authority  of  a  court  into  more  orthodox 
hands.  This  is  a  summary  view  of  that  religious  slavery  under 
which  a  people  have  been  willing  to  remain,  who  have  lavished 
their  lives  and  fortunes  for  the  establishment  of  their  civil  free- 
dom. The  error  seems  not  sufficiently  eradicated,  that  the  opera- 
tions of  the  mind,  as  well  as  the  acts  of  the  body,  are  subject  to 
the  coercion  of  the  laws.  But  our  rulers  can  have  no  authority 
over  such  natural  rights,  only  as  we  have  submitted  to  them. 
The  rights  of  conscience  we  never  submitted,  we  could  not  sub- 
mit. We  are  answerable  for  them  to  our  God.  The  legitimate 
powers  of  government  extend  to  such  acts  only  as  are  injurious 
to  others.  But  it  does  me  no  injury  for  my  neighbor  to  say  there 
are  twenty  Gods,  or  no  God.  It  neither  picks  my  pocket  nor 
breaks  my  leg.  If  it  be  said  his  testimony  in  a  court  of  justice 
cannot  be  relied  on,  reject  it  then,  and  be  the  stigma  on  him. 
Constraint  may  make  him  worse  by  making  him  a  hypocrite,  but 
it  will  never  make  him  a  truer  man.  It  may  fix  him  obstinately 
in  his  errors,  but  will  not  cure  them.  Reason  and  free  inquiry 
are  the  only  effectual  agents  against  error.  Give  loose  to  them, 
they  will  support  the  true  religion  by  bringing  every  false  one 
to  their  tribunal,  to  the  test  of  their  investigation.  They  are  the 
natural  enemies  of  error,  and  of  error  only.     Had  not  the  Roman, 


THOMAS  JEFFERSON  2357 

government  permitted  free  inquiry,  Christianity  could  never  have 
been  introduced.  Had  not  free  inquiry  been  indulged  at  the  era 
of  the  Reformation,  the  corruptions  of  Christianity  could  not  have 
been  purged  away.  If  it  be  restrained  now,  the  present  corrup- 
tions will  be  protected,  and  new  ones  encouraged.  Was  the  gov- 
ernment to  prescribe  to  us  our  medicine  and  diet,  our  bodies 
would  be  in  such  keeping  as  our  souls  are  now.  Thus  in  France 
the  emetic  was  once  forbidden  as  a  medicine,  and  the  potato  as 
an  article  of  food.  Government  is  just  as  infallible,  too,  when  it 
fixes  systems  in  physics.  Galileo  was  sent  to  the  Inquisition 
for  affirming  that  the  earth  was  a  sphere;  the  government  had 
declared  it  to  be  as  flat  as  a  trencher,  and  Galileo  was  obliged  to 
abjure  his  error.  This  error,  however,  at  length  prevailed,  the 
earth  became  a  globe,  ana  Descartes  declared  it  was  whirled 
round  its  axis  by  a  vortex.  The  government  in  which  he  lived 
was  wise  enough  to  see  that  this  was  no  question  of  civil  juris- 
diction, or  we  should  all  have  been  involved  by  authority  in  vor- 
tices. In  fact,  the  vortices  have  been  exploded,  and  the  Newtonian 
principle  of  gravitation  is  no\^  more  firmly  established,  on  the 
basis  of  reason,  than  it  would  be  were  the  government  to  step 
in,  and  to  make  it  an  article  of  necessary  faith.  Reason  and  ex- 
periment have  been  indulged,  and  error  has  fled  before  them.  It 
is  error  alone  which  needs  the  support  of  government.  Truth 
can  stand  by  itself.  Subject  opinion  to  coercion:  whom  will  you 
make  your  inquisitors?  Fallible  men;  men  governed  by  bad  pas- 
sions, by  private  as  well  as  public  reasons.  And  why  subject  it 
to  coercion  ?  To  produce  uniformity.  But  is  uniformity  of  opin- 
ion desirable  ?  No  more  than  of  face  and  stature.  Introduce  the 
bed  of  Procrustes  then,  and  as  there  is  danger  that  the  large 
men  may  beat  the  small,  make  us  all  of  a  size,  by  lopping  the 
former  and  stretching  the  latter.  Difference  of  opinion  is  advan- 
tageous in  reHgion.  The  several  sects  perform  the  office  of  a  cen- 
sor moriun  over  each  other.  Is  uniformity  attainable?  Millions 
of  innocent  men,  women,  and  children,  since  the  introduction  of 
Christianity  have  been  burned,  tortured,  fined,  imprisoned;  yet  we 
have  not  advanced  one  inch  towards  uniformity.  What  has  been 
the  effect  of  coercion?  To  make  one-half  the  world  fools,  and 
the  other  half  hypocrites.  To  support  roguery  and  error  all 
over  the  earth.  Let  us  reflect  that  it  is  inhabited  by  a  thousand 
millions  of  people.  That  these  profess  probably  a  thousand  differ- 
ent systems  of   religion.     That  ours  is  but  one  of  that  thousand. 


2358  THOMAS  JEFFERSON 

That  if  there  be  but  one  right,  and  ours  that  one,  we  should 
wish  to  see  the  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  wandering  sects 
gathered  into  the  fold  of  truth.  But  against  such  a  majority 
we  cannot  effect  this  by  force.  Reason  and  persuasion  are  the 
only  practicable  instruments.  .  To  make  way  for  these,  free  inquiry 
must  be  indulged;  and  how  can  we  wish  others  to  indulge  it 
while  we  refuse  it  ourselves.  But  every  State,  says  an  inquisi- 
tor, has  established  some  religion.  No  two,  say  I,  have  established 
the  same.  Is  this  a  proof  of  the  infallibility  of  establishments  ? 
Our  sister  States  of  Pennsylvania  and  New  York,  however,  have 
long  subsisted  without  any  establishment  at  all.  The  experiment 
was  new  and  doubtful  when  they  made  it.  It  has  answered 
beyond  conception.  They  flourish  infinitely.  Religion  is  well 
supported;  of  various  kinds,  indeed,  but  all  good  enough;  all 
sufficient  to  preserve  peace  and  order;  or  if  a  sect  arises,  whose 
tenets  would  subvert  morals,  good  sense  has  fair  play,  and  rea- 
sons and  laughs  it  out  of  doors,  without  suffering  the  state  to 
be  troubled  with  it.  They  do  not  hang  more  malefactors  than 
we  do.  They  are  not  more  disturbed  with  religious  dissensions. 
On  the  contrary,  their  harmony  is  unparalleled,  and  can  be  as- 
cribed to  nothing  but  their  unbounded  tolerance,  because  there 
is  no  other  circumstance  in  which  they  differ  from  every  nation 
on  earth.  They  have  made  the  happy  discovery  that  the  way  to 
silence  religious  disputes  is  to  take  no  notice  of  them.  Let  us 
too  give  this  experiment  fair  play,  and  get  rid,  while  we  may, 
of  those  tyrannical  laws.  It  is  true  we  are  as  yet  secured  against 
them  by  the  spirit  of  the  times.  I  doubt  whether  the  people  of 
this  country  would  suffer  an  execution  for  heresy,  or  a  three 
years'  imprisonment  for  not  comprehending  the  mysteries  of  the 
Trinity.  But  is  the  spirit  of  the  people  an  infallible,  a  perma- 
nent reliance  ?  Is  it  government  ?  Is  this  the  kind  of  protection 
we  receive  in  return  for  the  rights  we  give  up  ?  Besides,  the 
spirit  of  the  times  may  alter,  will  alter.  Our  rulers  will  become 
corrupt,  our  people  careless.  A  single  zealot  may  commence 
persecutor,  and  better  men  be  his  victims.  It  can  never  be  too 
often  repeated  that  the  time  for  fixing  every  essential  right  on 
a  legal  basis  is  while  our  rulers  are  honest,  and  ourselves  united. 
From  the  conclusion  of  this  war  we  shall  be  going  down  hill. 
It  will  not  then  be  necessary  to  resort  every  moment  to  the  peo- 
ple for  support.  They  will  be  forgotten  therefore,  and  their 
rights  disregarded.      They  will  forget  themselves  but  in  the  sole 


THOMAS  JEFFERSON  2359 

faculty  of  making  money,  and  will  never  think  of  uniting  to  ef- 
fect a  due  respect  for  their  rights.  The  shackles,  therefore, 
which  shall  not  be  knocked  off  at  the  conclusion  of  this  war, 
will  remain  on  us  long,  will  be  made  heavier  and  heavier,  till 
our  rights  shall  revive  or  expire  in  a  convulsion. 

Complete.     From  Jefferson's 
«  Notes  on  Virginia. '^ 


2360 


LORD   FRANCIS  JEFFREY 

(1773-1850) 

Francis  Jeffrey,  one  of  the  founders  of  the  Edinburgh  Review, 
was  born  in  Edinburgh,  October  23d,  1773,  3-"<i  educated  for 
the  bar.  He  began  practice  in  1794,  but  the  claims  of  his  busi- 
ness as  a  young  advocate  left  him  ample  leisure  and  he  joined  with  Broug- 
ham, Sidney  Smith,  and  others,  in  establishing  the  Edinburgh  Review, 
the  first  number  of  which  (October  loth,  1802)  was  edited  by  Sidney 
Smith  and  the  next  three  by  Jeffrey,  with  Brougham  as  the  princi- 
pal political  contributor.  The  Review  which  remained  chiefly  under 
the  editorship  of  Jeffrey,  was  a  success  from  the  beginning,  and  it 
made  all  its  principal  contributors  famous.  But  Jeffrey  never  wholly 
recovered  from  the  ex  cathedra  style  which  the  critical  reviewer  of 
that  period  used  as  an  indispensable  part  of  his  offensive  armament. 
In  1829  he  gave  up  the  editorship  of  the  Review  to  become  Dean 
of  the  Faculty  of  Advocates,  and  the  rest  of  his  life  was  largely  de- 
voted to  law  and  public  affairs.  He  became  Lord  Rector  of  Glas- 
gow University  in  1820,  Lord  Advocate  in  1830,  Member  of  Parlia- 
ment in  1832,  and  Judge  of  the  Court  of  Sessions  in  1834.  He  died 
January  26th,  1850.  He  had  a  strong  and  active  intellect,  and  it  ap- 
pears in  his  essays,  saving  many  of  them  from  the  deserved  oblivion 
which  has  overtaken  most  of  the  overbearing  geniuses  of  that  period 
of  talented  and  insolent  reviewers.  Of  his  best  essay  —  his  Obituary 
of  Watt— it  is  at  once  simple  justice  and  the  highest  possible  praise 
to  say  that  it  is  worthy  of  the  subject. 


WATT  AND   THE  WORK   OF   STEAM 

MR.  James  Watt,  the  great  improver  of  the  steam  engine,  died 
on  the  twenty-fifth  of  August,  1819,  at  his  seat  of  Heath- 
field,  near  Birmingham,  in  the  eighty-fourth  year  of  his 
age.  This  name  fortunately  needs  no  commemoration  of  ours,  for 
he  that  bore  it  survived  to  see  it  crowned  with  undisputed  and 
unenvied  honors;  and  many  generations  will  probably  pass  away 
before  it  shall  have  gathered  "all  its  fame."  We  have  said  that 
Mr.  Watt  was   the   great  improver  of   the  steam   engine,   but,  in 


LORD 


Review, 


of    leflfrev,    ^us   a    success   from    t^u-'.. 

WATT  DTSCOVERl^^ i^E   POWER  OF  STEAM. 

After,  the  Pathtmc  by    Di^ivUl  Neal.    . 
t\  an  mdispensaDle  ^art  ot  his  offensive  armament. 

la  '-P   the   editorship   of  the   Review  to  become  Dean 

^Avip  ©otit)FF"Nfe8£,  ^^Rdbibhe  attettot^feHjiMasfeachiaaettJati^eif  3de-and 
(     educated  at  Munich  where  wWatt-Disooveripgi  the  Po^werof  5Leam  » 
H     was   painted.      «  Cromwell's  Y.isit  to   Milton  »  is  another   celebrated 
picture  by  Neal.  He    died 


P  STEAM 

f  the  steam  engine,  died 
t  his  seat  of  Heath- 
year  of   his 
1  of  oyrs,  for 
with   undisputed  and 


engine 


LORD   FRANCIS    JEFFREY  2361 

truth,  as  to  all  that  is  admirable  in  its  structure,  or  vast  in  its 
utility,  he  should  rather  be  described  as  its  inventor.  It  was  by 
his  inventions  that  its  action  was  so  regulated  as  to  make  it  cap- 
able of  being  applied  to  the  finest  and  most  delicate  manufac- 
tures, and  its  power  so  increased  as  to  set  weight  and  solidity  at 
defiance.  By  his  admirable  contrivance  it  has  become  a  thing 
stupendous  alike  for  its  force  and  its  flexibility, —  for  the  prodi- 
gious power  which  it  can  exert,  and  the  ease,  and  precision,  and 
ductility  with  which  that  power  can  be  varied,  distributed,  and 
applied.  The  trunk  of  an  elephant  that  can  pick  up  a  pin  or 
rend  an  oak  is  as  nothing  to  it.  It  can  engrave  a  seal  and 
crush  masses  of  obdurate  metal  before  it  —  draw  out,  without 
breaking,  a  thread  as  fine  as  gossamer,  and  lift  a  ship  of  war  like 
a  bauble  in  the  air.  It  can  embroider  muslin  and  forge  anchors, 
cut  steel  into  ribands,  and  impel  loaded  vessels  against  the  fury 
of  the  winds  and  waves. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  estimate  the  value  of  the  benefits 
which  these  inventions  have  ccmferred  upon  this  country.  There 
is  no  branch  of  industry  that  has  not  been  indebted  to  them; 
and,  in  all  the  most  material,  they  have  not  only  widened  most 
magnificently  the  field  of  its  exertions,  but  multipHed  a  thousand- 
fold the  amount  of  its  productions.  It  was  our  improved  steam 
'engine,  in  short,  that  fought  the  battles  of  Europe,  and  exalted 
and  sustained,  through  the  late  tremendous  contest,  the  political 
greatness  of  our  land.  It  is  the  same  great  power  which  now 
enables  us  to  pay  the  interest  of  our  debt,  and  to  maintain  the 
arduous  struggle  in  which  we  are  still  engaged  (18 19),  with  the 
skill  and  capital  of  countries  less  oppressed  with  taxation.  But 
these  are  poor  and  narrow  views  of  its  importance.  It  has  in- 
creased indefinitely  the  mass  of  human  comforts  and  enjoyments; 
and  rendered  cheap  and  accessible,  all  over  the  world,  the  ma- 
terials of  wealth  and  prosperity.  It  has  armed  the  feeble  hand 
of  man,  in  short,  with  a  power  to  which  no  limits  can  be  as- 
signed; completed  the  dominion  of  mind  over  the  most  refrac- 
tory qualities  of  matter;  and  laid  a  sure  foundation  for  all  those 
future  miracles  of  mechanic  power  which  are  to  aid  and  reward 
the  labors  of  after  generations.  It  is  to  the  genius  of  one  man, 
too,  that  all  this  is  mainly  owing!  And  certainly  no  man  ever 
bestowed  such  a  gift  on  nis  kind.  The  blessing  is  not  only  uni- 
versal, but  unbounded;  and  the  fabled  inventors  of  the  plow 
^nd  the  loom,   who  were  deified  by  the  erring  gratitude  of    their 


2362  LORD  FRANCIS   JEFFREY 

rude    cotemporaries,  conferred   less    important    benefits    on    man- 
kind than  the  inventor  of  our  present  steam  engine. 

This  will  be  the  fame  of  Watt  with  future  generations.     And 
it   is   sufficient   for   his   race   and   his   country.     But   to   those   to 
whom  he   more  immediately  belonged,   who   lived    in   his    society 
and  enjoyed  his  conversation,  it  is  not,   perhaps,  the  character  in 
which  he  will  be  most  frequently  recalled  —  most  deeply  lamented 
—  or  even  most  highly  admired.      Independently  of   his  great  at- 
tainments  in   mechanics,   Mr.   Watt  was  an  extraordinary,  and  in 
many  respects  a  wonderful   man.      Perhaps    no    individual    in    his 
age  possessed  so  much  and  such  varied  and  exact  information, — 
had  read  so  much,  or  remembered  what  he  had  read  so  accurately 
and  well.      He   had   infinite  quickness   of   apprehension,  a   prodi- 
gious memory,  and  a  certain  rectifying  and  methodizing  power  of 
understanding,  which  extracted  something  precious  out  of  all  that 
was    presented    to    it.      His    stores    of    miscellaneous    knowledge 
were  immense, —  and   yet   less  astonishing  than  the  command  he 
had  at  all  times  over  them.      It  seemed  as  if  every  subject   that 
was   casually    started    in    conversation    with    him    had    been    that 
which   he  had  been  last  occupied  in  studying  and  exhausting;  — 
such  was  the  copiousness,  the  precision,  and  the  admirable  clear- 
ness of    the   information  which   he    poured    out    upon    it,   without 
effort  or  hesitation.     Nor  was   this   promptitude    and   compass  of 
knowledge  confined    in  any  degree  to  the   studies  connected  with 
his  ordinary  pursuits.      That   he   should   have  been  minutely  and 
extensively  skilled  in  chemistry  and  the  arts,   and  in  most  of  the 
branches   of  physical    science,  might   perhaps   have   been   conjec- 
tured ;  but  it  could  not  have  been  inferred  from  his  usual  occupa- 
^  tions,  and  probably  is  not  generally  known,  that  he  was  curiously 
learned    in    many    branches    of    antiquity,  metaphysics,  medicine, 
and  etymology,  and  perfectly  at  home  in  all  the  details  of  archi- 
tecture, music,  and  law.      He  was  well  acquainted  too  with  most 
of   the    modern    languages,  and    familiar    with   their    most    recent 
literature.      Nor    was    it    at    all    extraordinary    to   hear   the    great 
mechanician    and    engineer    detailing    and  expounding,  for   hours 
together,  the    metaphysical    theories  of   the  German    logicians,  or 
criticizing  the  measures  or  the  matter  of  the  German  poetry. 

His  astonishing  memory  was  aided,  no  doubt,  in  a  great  meas- 
ure, by  a  still  higher  and  rarer  faculty  —  by  his  power  of  digest- 
ing and  arranging  in  its  proper  place  all  the  information  he 
received,  and  of  casting   aside    and   rejecting,  as  it  were  instinc- 


LORD   FRANCIS    JEFFREY  2363 

tively,  whatever  was  worthless  or  immaterial.  Every  conception 
that  Vv-as  sug-gested  to  his  mind  seemed  instantly  to  take  its  proper 
place  among  its  other  rich  furniture;  and  to  be  condensed  into 
the  smallest  and  most  convenient  form.  He  never  appeared, 
therefore,  to  be  at  all  encumbered  or  perplexed  with  the  verbiage 
of  the  dull  books  he  perused,  or  the  idle  talk  to  which  he  lis- 
tened; but  to  have  at  once  extracted,  by  a  kind  of  intellectual 
alchemy,  all  that  was  worthy  of  attention,  and  to  have  reduced 
it,  for  his  own  use,  to  its  true  value  and  to  its  simplest  form. 
And  thus  it  often  happened  that  a  great  deal  more  was  learned 
from  his  brief  and  vigorous  account  of  the  theories  and  argu- 
ments of  tedious  writers  than  an  ordinary  student  could  ever 
have  derived  from  the  most  painful  study  of  the  originals, —  and 
that  errors  and  absurdities  became  manifest  from  the  mere  clear- 
ness and  plainness  of  his  statement  of  them,  which  might  have 
deluded  and  perplexed  most  of  his  hearers  without  that  invaluable 
assistance. 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  with  those  vast  resources  his  con- 
versation was  at  all  times  rich  and  instructive  in  no  ordinary  de- 
gree. But  it  was,  if  possible,  still  more  pleasing  than  wise,  and 
had  all  the  charms  of  familiarity,  with  all  the  substantial  treas- 
ures of  knowledge.  No  man  could  be  more  social  in  his  spirit, 
less  assuming  or  fastidious  in  his  manners,  or  more  kind  and 
indulgent  towards  all  who  approached  him.  He  rather  liked  to 
talk  —  at  least  in  his  latter  years.  But  though  he  took  a  consid- 
erable share  of  the  conversation,  he  rarely  suggested  the  topics 
on  which  it  was  to  turn,  but  readily  and  quietly  took  up  what- 
ever was  presented  by  those  around  him,  and  astonished  the 
idle  and  barren  propounders  of  an  ordinary  theme,  by  the  treas- 
ures which  he  drew  from  the  mine  they  had  unconsciously 
opened.  He  generally  seemed,  indeed,  to  have  no  choice  or  pred- 
ilection for  one  subject  of  discourse  rather  than  another;  but  al- 
lowed his  mind,  like  a  great  cyclopaedia,  to  be  opened  at  any 
letter  his  associates  might  choose  to  turn  up,  and  only  endeav- 
ored to  select,  from  his  inexhaustible  stores,  what  might  be  best 
adapted  to  the  taste  of  his  present  hearers.  As  to  their  capacity 
he  gave  himself  no  trouble;  and,  indeed,  such  was  his  singular 
talent  for  making  all  things  plain,  clear,  and  intelligible,  that 
iK;arcely  any  one  could  be  aware  of  such  a  deficiency  in  his  pres- 
ence. His  talk,  too,  though  overflowing  with  information,  had  no 
resemblance  to  lecturing  or  solemn  discoursing,  but,  on  the  con- 


2364  LORD   FRANCIS    JEFFREY 

trary,  was  full  of  colloquial  spirit  and  pleasantry.  He  had  a  cer- 
tain quiet  and  grave  humor,  which  ran  through  most  of  his 
conversation,  and  a  vein  of  temperate  jocularity,  which  gave  infi- 
nite zest  and  effect  to  the  condensed  and  inexhaustible  informa- 
tion which  formed  its  main  staple  and  characteristic.  There  was 
a  little  air  of  affected  testiness  too,  and  a  tone  of  pretended 
rebuke  and  contradiction,  with  which  he  used  to  address  his 
younger  friends,  that  was  always  felt  by  them  as  an  endearing 
mark  of  his  kindness  and  familiarity, —  and  prized  accordingly, 
far  beyond  all  the  solemn  compliments  that  ever  proceeded  from 
the  lips  of  authority.  His  voice  was  deep  and  powerful  — 
though  he  commonly  spoke  in  a  low  and  somewhat  monotonous 
tone,  which  harmonized  admirably  with  the  weight  and  brevity 
of  his  observations;  and  set  off  to  the  greatest  advantage  the 
pleasant  anecdotes,  which  he  delivered  with  the  same  grave  brow, 
and  the  same  calm  smile  playing  soberly  on  his  lips.  There  was 
nothing  of  effort  indeed,  or  impatience,  any  more  than  of  pride 
or  levity,  in  his  demeanor;  and  there  was  a  finer  expression  of 
reposing  strength  and  mild  self-possession  in  his  manner  than 
we  ever  recollect  to  have  met  with  in  any  other  person.  He  had 
in  his  character  the  utmost  abhorrence  for  all  sorts  of  forward- 
ness, parade,  and  pretensions;  and,  indeed,  never  failed  to  put  all 
such  impostures  out  of  countenance,  by  the  manly  plainness  and 
honest  intrepidity  of  his  language  and  deportment. 

In  his  temper  and  dispositions  he  was  not  only  kind  and  af- 
fectionate, but  generous  and  considerate  of  the  feelings  of  all 
around  him;  and  gave  the  most  liberal  assistance  and  encour- 
agement to  all  young  persons  who  showed  any  indications  of  tal- 
ent, or  applied  to  him  for  patronage  or  advice.  His  health, 
which  was  delicate  from  his  youth  upwards,  seemed  to  become 
firmer  as  he  advanced  in  years;  and  he  preserved  up  almost  to 
the  last  moment  of  his  existence,  not  only  the  full  command  of 
his  extraordinary  intellect,  but  all  the  alacrity  of  spirit,  and  the 
social  gayety  which  had  illumined  his  happiest  days.  His  friends 
in  this  part  of  the  country  never  saw  him  more  full  of  intellec- 
tual vigor  and  colloquial  animation, — never  more  delightful  or 
more  instructive, —  than  in  his  last  visit  to  Scotland  in  the  autumn 
of  181 7.  Indeed,  it  was  after  that  time  that  he  applied  himself, 
with  all  the  ardor  of  early  life,  to  the  invention  of  a  machine 
for  mechanically  copying  all  sorts  of  sculpture  and  statuary;  — 
and  distributed  among  his  friends  some  of    its   earliest   perform- 


LORD  FRANCIS    JEFFREY  2365 

ances,  as  the   productions   of   *  a  young  artist,    just  entering   on 
his  eighty-third  year!** 

This  happy  and  useful  life  came  at  last  to  a  gentle  close. 
He  had  suffered  some  inconvenience  through  the  summer,  but 
was  not  seriously  indisposed  till  within  a  few  weeks  from  his 
death.  He  then  became  perfectly  aware  of  the  event  which  was 
approaching,  and  with  his  usual  tranquillity  and  benevolence  of 
nature  seemed  only  anxious  to  point  out  to  the  friends  around 
him  the  many  sources  of  consolation  which  were  afforded  by  the 
circumstances  under  which  it  was  about  to  take  place.  He  ex- 
pressed his  sincere  gratitude  to  Providence  for  the  length  of  days 
with  which  he  had  been  blessed,  and  his  exemption  from  most 
of  the  infirmities  of  age,  as  well  as  for  the  calm  and  cheerful 
evening  of  life  that  he  had  been  permitted  to  enjoy,  after  the 
honorable  labors  of  the  day  had  been  concluded.  And  thus,  full 
of  years  and  honors,  in  all  calmness  and  tranquillity,  he  yielded 
up  his  soul,  without  pang  or  struggle, — and  passed  from  the 
bosom  of  his  family  to  that  of  his  God. 

Complete.     From  the  Edinburgh  Review.     Published  on  the  death  of  Watt 


I 


ON  GOOD   AND   BAD   TASTE 

F  THINGS  are  not  beautiful  in  themselves,  but  only  as  they 
serve  to  suggest  interesting  conceptions  to  the  mind,  then 
everything  which  does  in  point  of  fact  suggest  such  a  con- 
ception to  any  individual  is  beautiful  to  that  individual;  and  it 
is  not  only  quite  true  that  there  is  no  room  for  disputing  about 
tastes,  but  that  all  tastes  are  equally  just  and  correct  in  so  far 
as  each  individual  speaks  only  of  his  own  emotions.  When  a 
man  calls  a  thing  beautiful,  however,  he  may  indeed  mean  to 
make  two  very  different  assertions:  he  may  mean  that  it  gives 
him  pleasure  by  suggesting  to  him  some  interesting  emotion; 
and,  in  this  sense,  there  can  be  no  doubt  that,  if  he  merely 
speak  the  truth,  the  thing  is  beautiful;  and  that  it  pleases  him 
precisely  in  the  same  way  that  all  other  things  please  those 
to  whom  they  appear  beautiful.  But  if  he  mean  further  to  say 
that  the  thing  possesses  some  quality  which  should  make  it  appear 
beautiful  to  every  other  person,  and  that  it  is  owing  to  some 
prejudice  or  defect  in  thrm  if  it  appear  otherwise,  then  he  is  as 
unreasonable  and  absurd  as  he  would  think  those  who  should  at- 
tempt to  convince  him  that  he  felt  no  emotion  of  beauty. 


2-66  LORD  FRANCIS    JEFFREY 

All  tastes,  then,  are  equally  just  and  true,  in  so  far  as  con- 
cerns the  individual  whose  taste  is  in  question;  and  what  a  man 
feels  distinctly  to  be  beautiful  is  beautiful  to  him,  what- 
ever other  people  may  think  of  it.  All  this  follows  clearly 
from  the  theory  now  in  question;  but  it  does  not  follow  from  it 
that  all  tastes  are  equally  good  or  desirable,  or  that  there  is 
any  difficulty  in  describing  that  which  is  really  the  best  and  the 
most  to  be  envied.  The  only  use  of  the  faculty  of  taste  is  to 
afEord  an  innocent  delight,  and  to  aid  the  cultivation  of  a  finer 
morality;  and  that  man  certainly  will  have  the  most  delight 
from  this  faculty,  who  has  the  most  numerous  and  the  most 
powerful  perceptions  of  beauty.  But  if  beauty  consist  in  the  re- 
flection of  our  affections  and  sympathies,  it  is  plain  that  he  will 
always  see  the  most  beauty  whose  affections  are  warmest  and 
most  exercised,  whose  imagination  is  most  powerful,  and  who 
has  most  accustomed  himself  to  attend  to  the  objects  by  which 
he  is  surrounded.  In  so  far  as  mere  feeling  and  enjoyment  are 
concerned,  therefore,  it  seems  evident  that  the  best  taste  must 
be  that  which  belongs  to  the  best  affections,  the  most  active 
fancy,  and  the  most  attentive  habits  of  observation.  It  will  fol- 
low pretty  exactly,  too,  that  all  men's  perceptions  of  beauty  will 
be  nearly  in  proportion  to  the  degree  of  their  sensibility  and  so- 
cial sympathies;  and  that  those  who  have  no  affections  towards 
sentient  beings  will  be  just  as  insensible  to  beauty  in  external 
objects,  as  he  who  cannot  hear  the  sound  of  his  friend's  voice 
must  be  deaf  to  its  echo. 

In  so  far  as  the  sense  of  beauty  is  regarded  as  a  mere  source 
of  enjoyment,  this  seems  to  be  the  only  distinction  that  deserves 
to  be  attended  to;  and  the  only  cultivation  that  taste  should  ever 
receive,  with  a  view  to  the  gratification  of  the  individual,  should 
be  through  the  indirect  channel  of  cultivating  the  affections  and 
powers  of  observation.  If  we  aspire,  however,  to  be  creators  as 
well  as  observers  of  beauty,  and  place  any  part  of  our  happiness 
in  ministering  to  the  gratification  of  others,  as  artists,  or  poets, 
or  authors  of  any  sort,  then,  indeed,  a  new  distinction  of  tastes, 
and  a  far  more  laborious  system  of  cultivation  will  be  necessary. 
A  man  who  pursues  only  his  own  delight  will  be  as  much 
charmed  with  objects  that  suggest  powerful  emotions,  in  conse- 
quence of  personal  and  accidental  associations,  as  with  those  that 
introduce  similar  emotions  by  means  of  associations  that  are  uni- 
versal and  indestructible.     To  him  all  objects  of  the  former  class 


LORD   FRANCIS    JEFFREY  2367 

are  really  as  beautiful  as  those  of  the  latter;  and  for  his  own 
gratification,  the  creation  of  that  sort  of  beauty  is  just  as  impor- 
tant an  occupation.  But  if  he  conceive  the  ambition  of  creating 
beauties  for  the  admiration  of  others,  he  must  be  cautious  to 
employ  only  such  objects  as  are  the  natural  signs,  or  the  insep- 
arable concomitants  of  emotions,  of  which  the  greater  part  of 
mankind  are  susceptible;  and  his  taste  will  then  deserve  to  be 
called  bad  and  false,  if  he  obtrude  upon  the  public,  as  beautiful, 
objects  that  are  not  likely  to  be  associated  in  common  minds  with 
any  interesting  impressions. 

For  a  man  himself,  then,  there   is   no    taste   that  is  either  bad 
or  false;    and  the  only  difference  worthy  of   being  attended  to  is 
that    between    a    great   deal    and   a   very   Httle.     Some    who   have 
cold   affections,  sluggish   imaginations,  and    no   habits   of   observa- 
tion, can  with  difficulty  discern  beauty  in  anything;  while  others, 
who  are  full  of   kindness  and  sensibility,  and  who  have  been  ac- 
customed to  attend  to  all  the  objects  around  them,  feel  it  almost 
in  everything.     It  is  no   matter  what    other   people   may  think  of 
the  objects  of   their   admiration;    nor  ought  it    to  be  any  concern 
of  theirs  that  the  pubHc  would  be  astonished  or  offended,  if  they 
were   called   upon    to    join    in    that    admiration.      So    long   as   no 
such   call    is   made,  this   anticipated    discrepancy   of    feeling   need 
give  them  no  uneasiness;    and  the  suspicion  of  it  should  produce 
no    contempt   in    any  other    persons.      It   is    a    strange   aberration 
indeed  of  vanity  that  makes  us  despise  persons  for  being  happy, 
for  having  sources  of   enjoyment  in  which  we  cannot  share;    and 
yet  this  is  the  true  account  of  the  ridicule,  which  is  so  generally 
poured   upon    individuals   who    seek   only  to    enjoy    their   peculiar 
tastes   unmolested.      For    if   there  be  any  truth  in  the  theory  we 
have  been  expounding,  no  taste  is  bad  for  any  other  reason  than 
because   it    is    peculiar,  as    the   objects  in  which    it    delights  must 
actually  serve    to    suggest    to    the   individual    those   common  emo- 
tions and  universal    affections  upon  which  the  sense  of   beauty  is 
everywhere    founded.     The    misfortune    is,  however,  that    we    are 
apt  to  consider  all    persons  who   make    known    their    peculiar  rel- 
ishes, and    especially  all  who  create  any  objects    for   their   gratifi- 
cation, as   in    some   measure    dictating    to    the    public,  and    setting 
up  an  idol  for  general  adoration ;  and  hence  this  intolerant  inter- 
ference with    almost   all  peculiar   perceptions  of   beauty,   and    the 
unsparing  derision  that  pursues  all  deviations  from  acknowledged 
standards.      This    intolerance,    we    admit,    is    often    provoked    by 


2368  LORD  FRANCIS   JEFFREY 

something  of  a  spirit  of  proselytism  and  arrogance  in  those  who 
mistake  their  own  casual  associations  for  natural  or  universal  re- 
lations; and  the  consequence  is,  that  mortified  vanity  dries  up 
the  fountain  of  their  peculiar  enjoyment,  and  disenchants,  by  a 
new  association  of  general  contempt  or  ridicule,  the  scenes  that 
had  been  consecrated  by  some  innocent  but  accidental  emotion. 

As  all  men  must  have  some  peculiar  associations,  all  men 
must  have  some  peculiar  notions  of  beauty,  and,  of  course,  to  a 
certain  extent,  a  taste  that  the  public  would  be  entitled  to  con- 
sider as  false  or  vitiated.  For  those  who  make  no  demands  on 
public  admiration,  however,  it  is  hard  to  be  obliged  to  sacrifice 
this  source  of  enjoyment;  and  even  for  those  who  labor  for  ap- 
plause, the  wisest  course,  perhaps,  if  it  were  only  practicable, 
would  be  to  have  two  tastes;  one  to  enjoy,  and  one  to  work  by; 
one  founded  upon  universal  associations,  according  to  which  they 
finished  those  performances  for  which  they  challenged  universal 
praise,  and  another  guided  by  all  casual  and  individual  associa- 
tions, through  which  they  looked  fondly  upon  nature,  and  upon 
the  objects  of  their  secret  admiration. 

From  the  essay  on  « Beauty.* 


2369 


JEROME   K.  JEROME 

(1859-) 

Jerome  Klapka  Jerome  was  born  at  Walsall,  England,  May  2d, 
1859.  He  is  the  son  of  a  clergyman,  and  in  a  sketch  of  his 
life,  which  he  is  supposed  to  have  revised  for  the  press,  it 
is  said  in  summing  up  his  work  that  he  has  been  <*  clerk,  schoolmas- 
ter, actor,  and  journalist."  He  has  edited  To-Day  and  the  Idler,  and 
published  a  notable  list  of  books,  chief  among  which  stands  « Idle 
Thoughts  of  an  Idle  Fellow,"  1889,— a  work  which  is  so  full  of  good 
nature,  and  so  entirely  free  from  unnecessary  seriousness  that  the 
world  will  not  willingly  let  it  die.  Among  his  latest  works  are 
«  Sketches  in  Lavender,"  «  Letters  to  Clorinda,"  and  «  Second  Thoughts 
of  an  Idle  Fellow.* 


ON   GETTING   ON    IN   THE  WORLD 

NOT  exactly  the  sort  of  thing  fur  an  idle  fellow  to  think  about, 
is   it  ?      But    outsiders,    you    know,   often    see    most    of   the 
game;    and    sitting   in    my  arbor    by  the  wayside,  smoking 
my  hookah  of  contentment,  and  eating  the  sweet  lotus  leaves  of 
indolence,  I    can   look   out    musingly   upon    the   whirling    throng 
that  rolls  and  tumbles  past  me  on  the  great  highroad  of  life. 

Never-ending  is  the  wild  procession.  Day  and  night  you  can 
hear  the  quick  tramp  of  the  myriad  feet  —  some  running,  some 
walking,  some  halting  and  lame;  but  all  hastening,  all  eager  in 
the  feverish  race,  all  straining  life  and  limb  and  heart  and  soul 
to  reach  the  ever-receding  horizon  of  success. 

Mark  them  as  they  surge  along  —  men  and  women,  old  and 
young,  gentle  and  simple,  fair  and  foul,  rich  and  poor,  merry 
and  sad  —  all  hurrying,  bustling,  scrambling.  The  strong  pushing 
aside  the  weak;  the  cunning  creeping  past  the  foolish;  those  be- 
hind elbowing  those  before;  those  in  front  kicking,  as  they  run, 
at  those  behind.  Look  close,  and  see  the  flitting  show.  Here  is 
an  old  man  panting  for  breath;  and  there  a  timid  maiden,  driven 
by  a  hard  and  sharp-faced  matron;  here  is  a  studious  youth,  read- 
VI — 149 


237©  JEROME   K.  JEROME 

ing  *  How  to  Get  On  in  the  World,*  and  letting  everybody  pass 
him  as  he  stumbles  along  with  his  eyes  on  his  book;  here  is  a 
bored-looking  man,  with  a  fashionably  dressed  woman  jogging  his 
elbow;  here  a  boy  gazing  wistfully  back  at  the  sunny  village 
that  he  never  again  will  see;  here,  with  a  firm  and  easy  step, 
strides  a  broad-shouldered  man;  and  here,  with  a  stealthy  tread, 
a  thin-faced,  stooping  fellow  dodges  and  shuffles  upon  his  way; 
here,  with  gaze  fixed  always  on  the  ground,  an  artful  rogue  care- 
fully works  his  way  from  side  to  side  of  the  road,  and  thinks  he 
is  going  forward;  and  here  a  youth  with  a  noble  face  stands, 
hesitating  as  he  looks  from  the  distant  goal  to  the  mud  beneath 
his  feet. 

And  now  into  the  sight  comes  a  fair  girl,  with  her  dainty 
face  growing  more  wrinkled  at  every  step;  and  now  a  careworn 
man,  and  now  a  hopeful  lad. 

A  motley  throng  —  a  motley  throng!  Prince  and  beggar,  sin- 
ner and  saint,  butcher  and  baker  and  candlestick  maker,  tinkers 
and  tailors,  and  plowboys  and  sailors  —  all  jostling  along  together. 
Here  the  counsel  in  his  wig  and  gown,  and  here  the  old  Jew 
clothesman  under  his  dingy  tiara;  here  the  soldier  in  scarlet,  and 
here  the  undertaker's  mute  in  streaming  hatband  and  worn  cot- 
ton gloves;  here  the  musty  scholar,  fumbling  his  faded  leaves, 
and  here  the  scented  actor,  dangling  his  showy  seals.  Here  the 
glib  politician,  crying  his  legislative  panaceas;  and  here  the  peri- 
patetic Cheap- Jack,  holding  aloft  his  quack  cures  for  human  ills. 
Here  the  sleek  capitalist,  and  there  the  sinewy  laborer;  here  the 
man  of  science,  and  here  the  shoeblack;  here  the  poet,  and  here 
the  water-rate  collector;  here  the  cabinet  minister,  and  there  the 
ballet  dancer.  Here  a  red-nosed  publican,  shouting  the  praises 
of  his  vats,  and  here  a  temperance  lecturer  at  fifty  pounds  a 
night;  here  a  judge,  and  there  a  swindler;  here  a  priest,  and 
there  a  gambler.  Here  a  jeweled  duchess,  smiling  and  gracious; 
here  a  thin  lodging-house  keeper,  irritable  with  cooking;  and  here 
a  wabbling,  strutting  thing,  tawdry  in  paint  and  finery. 

Cheek  by  cheek  they  struggle  onward.  Screaming,  cursing, 
and  praying,  laughing,  singing,  and  moaning,  they  rush  past  side 
by  side.  Their  speed  never  slackens,  the  race  never  ends.  There 
is  no  wayside  rest  for  them,  no  halt  by  cooling  fountains,  no  pause 
beneath  green  shades.  On,  on,  on  —  on  through  the  heat  and  the 
crowd  and  the  dust  —  on,  or  they  will  be  trampled  down  and  lost 
—  on,  with  throbbing  brain  and  tottering  limbs — on,  till  the  heart 


JEROME   K.  JEROME  9371 

grows  sick,  and  the  eyes  grow  blurred  and  a  gurgling  gftoan  tells 
those  behind  they  may  close  up  another  space. 

And  yet  in  spite  of  the  killing  pace  and  the  stony  track,  who 
but  the  sluggard  or  the  dolt  can  hold  aloof  from  the  course  ? 
Who  —  like  the  belated  traveler  that  stands  watching  fairy  revels 
till  he  snatches  and  drains  the  goblin  cup,  and  springs  into  the 
whirling  circle  —  can  view  the  mad  tumult,  and  not  be  drawn  into 
its  midst  ?  Not  I,  for  one.  I  confess  to  the  wayside  arbor,  the 
pipe  of  contentment,  and  the  lotus  leaves  being  altogether  un- 
suitable metaphors.  They  sounded  very  nice  and  philosophical, 
but  I'm  afraid  I  am  not  the  sort  of  person  to  sit  in  arbors,  smok- 
ing pipes,  when  there  is  any  fun  going  on  outside.  I  think  I 
more  resemble  the  Irishman,  who,  seeing  a  crowd  collecting,  sent 
his  little  girl  out  to  ask  if  there  was  going  to  be  a  row  —  ^^  'Cos, 
if  so,  father  would  like  ""o  be  in  it.'^ 

I  love  the  fierce  strife.  I  like  to  watch  it.  I  like  to  hear  of 
people  getting  on  in  it — battling  their  way  bravely  and  fairly 
—  that  is,  not  slipping  through  by  luck  or  trickery.  It  stirs 
one's  old-  Saxon  fighting  blood,  like  the  tales  of  <*  knights  who 
fouglrt  'gainst  fearful  odds "  that  thrilled  us  in  our  schoolboy 
days. 

And  fighting  the  battle  of  life  is  fighting  against  fearful  odds 
too.  There  are  giants  and  dragons  in  this  nineteenth  century, 
and  the  golden  casket  that  they  guard  is  not  so  easy  to  win  as 
it  appears  in  the  storybooks.  There,  Algernon  takes  one  long, 
last  look  at  the  ancestral  hall,  dashes  the  teardrop  from  his  eye, 
and  goes  off  —  to  return  in  three  years*  time,  rolling  in  riches. 
The  authors  do  not  tell  us  "how  it's  done,**  which  is  a  pity,  for 
it  would  surely  prove  exciting. 

But  then  not  one  novelist  in  a  thousand  ever  does  tell  us  the 
real  story  of  his  hero.  They  linger  for  a  dozen  pages  over  a 
tea  party,  but  sum  up  a  life's  history  with  "he  had  become  one 
of  our  merchant  princes,"  or,  "he  was  now  a  great  artist,  with 
the  whole  world  at  his  feet."  Why,  there  is  more  real  life  in 
one  of  Gilbert's  patter  songs  than  in  half  the  biographical  novels 
ever  written.  He  relates  to  us  all  the  various  steps  by  which 
his  office  boy  rose  to  be  the  "ruler  of  the  Queen's  navee,"  and 
explains  to  us  how  the  briefless  barrister  managed  to  become  a 
great  and  good  judge,  "  ready  to  try  this  breach  of  promise  of 
marriage."  It  is  in  the  petty  details,  not  in  the  great  results, 
thit  the  interest  of  existence  lies. 


a37a  JEROME  K.  JEROME 

What  we  really  want  is  a  novel  showing  us  all  the  hidden 
undercurrent  of  an  ambitious  man's  career  —  his  struggles,  and 
failures,  and  hopes,  his  disappointments  and  victories.  It  would 
be  an  immense  success.  I  am  sure  the  wooing  of  Fortune  would 
prove  quite  as  interesting  a  tale  as  the  wooing  of  any  flesh-and- 
blood  maiden,  though,  by  the  way,  it  would  read  extremely  simi- 
lar; for  Fortune  is,  indeed,  as  the  Ancients  painted  her,  very  like 
a  woman  —  not  quite  so  unreasonable  and  inconsistent,  but  nearly 
so  —  and  the  pursuit  is  much  the  same  in  one  case  as  in  the 
other.     Ben  Jonson's  couplet  — 

'<  Court  a  mistress,  she  denies  you ; 
Let  her  alone,  she  will  court  you* 

puts  them  both  in  a  nutshell.  A  woman  never  thoroughly  cares 
for  her  lover  until  he  has  ceased  to  care  for  her;  and  it  is  not 
until  you  have  snapped  your  fingers  in  Fortune's  face,  and  turned 
on  your  heel,  that  she  begins  to  smile  upon  you. 

But  by  that  time  you  do  not  much  care  whether  she  smiles 
or  frowns.  Why  could  she  not  have  smiled  when  her  smiles  would 
have  thrilled  you  with  ecstasy  ?  Everything  comes  too  late  in 
this  world. 

Good  people  say  that  it  is  quite  right  and  proper  that  it  should 
be  so,  and  that  it  proves  ambition  is  wicked. 

Bosh!  Good  people  are  altogether  wrong.  (They  always  are, 
in  my  opinion.  We  never  agree  on  any  single  point.)  What  would 
the  world  do  without  ambitious  people,  I  should  like  to  know? 
Why,  it  would  be  as  flabby  as  a  Norfolk  dumpling.  Ambitious 
people  are  the  leaven  which  raises  into  wholesome  bread.  With- 
out ambitious  people  the  world  would  never  get  up.  They  are 
busybodies  who  are  about  early  in  the  morning,  hammering,  shout- 
ing, and  rattling  the  fire  irons,  and  rendering  it  generally  impos- 
sible for  the  rest  of  the  house  to  remain  in  bed. 

Wrong  to  be  ambitious,  forsooth!  The  men  wrong,  who,  with 
bent  back  and  sweating  brow,  cut  the  smooth  road  over  which 
Humanity  marches  forward  from  generation  to  generation!  Men 
wrong,  for  using  the  talents  that  their  Master  has  intrusted  to 
them  —  for  toiling  while  others  play! 

Of  course  they  are  seeking  their  reward.  Man  is  not  given 
that  God-like  unselfishness  that  thinks  only  of  others'  good.  But 
in  working  for  themselves  they  are  working  for  us  all.  We  are 
so    bound    together   that   no   man   can   labor    for   himself    alone. 


JEROME    K.   JEROME  2373 

Each  blow  he  strikes  in  his  own  behalf  helps  to  mold  the  Uni- 
verse. The  stream,  in  struggling  onward,  turns  the  mill  wheel; 
the  coral  insect,  fashioning  its  tiny  cells,  joins  continents  to  each 
other;  and  the  ambitious  man,  building  a  pedestal  for  himself, 
leaves  a  monument  to  posterity.  Alexander  and  Caesar  fought 
for  their  own  ends,  but,  in  doing  so,  they  put  a  belt  of  civiliza- 
tion half  round  the  earth.  Stephenson,  to  win  a  fortune,  in- 
vented the  steam  engine ;  and  Shakespeare  wrote  his  plays  in 
order  to  keep  a  comfortable  home  for  Mrs.  Shakespeare  and  the 
little   Shakespeares. 

Contented,  unambitious  people  are  all  very  well  in  their  way. 
They  form  a  neat,  useful  background  for  great  portraits  to  be 
painted  against;  and  they  make  a  respectable,  if  not  particularly 
intelligent  audience  for  the  active  spirits  of  the  age  to  play  be- 
fore. I  have  not  a  word  to  say  against  contented  people  so  long 
as  they  keep  quiet.  But  do  not,  for  goodness'  sake,  let  them  go 
strutting  about,  as  they  are  so  fond  of  doing,  crying  out  that 
they  are ''the  true  models  for  the  whole  species.  Why,  they  are 
the  deadheads,  the  drones  in  the  great  hive,  the  street  crowds 
that  lounge  about,  gaping  at  those  who  are  working. 

And  let  them  not  imagine  either  —  as  they  are  also  fond  of 
doing  —  that  they  are  very  wise  and  philosophical,  and  that  it  is 
a  very  artful  thing  to  be  contented.  It  may  be  true  that  "  a  con- 
tented mind  is  happy  anywhere,"  but  so  is  a  Jerusalem  pony,  and 
the  consequence  is  that  both  are  put  anywhere  and  are  treated 
anyhow.  "Oh,  you  need  not  bother  about  him,"  is  what  is  said; 
**  he  is  very  contented  as  he  is,  and  it  would  be  a  pity  to  disturb 
him."  And  so  your  contented  party  is  passed  over,  and  the  dis- 
contented man  gets  his  place. 

If  you  are  foolish  enough  to  be  contented,  don't  show  it,  but 
grumble  with  the  rest;  and  if  you  can  do  with  a  little,  ask  for  a 
great  deal.  Because  if  you  don't  you  won't  get  any.  In  this  world, 
it  is  necessary  to  adopt  the  principle  pursued  by  the  plaintiff  in 
an  action  for  damages,  and  to  demand  ten  times  more  than  you 
are  ready  to  accept.  If  you  can  feel  satisfied  with  a  hundred, 
begin  by  insisting  on  a  thousand;  if  you  start  by  suggesting  a 
hundred,  you  will  only  get  ten. 

It  was  by  not  following  this  simple  plan  that  poor  Jean 
JaCques  Rousseau  came  to  such  grief.  He  fixed  the  summit  of  his 
earthly  bliss  at  living  in  an  orchard  with  an  amiable  woman  and 
a  cow,  and  he  never  attained  even   that.       He   did  get  as   far  as 


2374  JEROME   K.  JEROME 

the  orchard,  but  the  woman  was  not  amiable,  and  she  brought 
her  mother  with  her,  and  there  was  no  cow.  Now,  if  he  had 
made  up  his  mind  for  a  large  country  estate,  a  houseful  of  an- 
gels, and  a  cattle  show,  he  might  have  lived  to  possess  his  kitchen 
garden  and  one  head  of  live  stock,  and  even  possibly  have  come 
across  that  rara  avis  —  a  really  amiable  woman. 

What  a  terribly  dull  affair,  too,  life  must  be  for  contented 
people!  How  heavy  the  time  must  hang  upon  their  hands,  and 
what  on  earth  do  they  occupy  their  thoughts  with,  supposing 
that  they  have  any  ?  Reading  the  paper  and  smoking  seems  to 
be  the  intellectual  food  of  the  majority  of  them,  to  which  the  more 
energetic  add  playing  the  flute  and  talking  about  the  affairs  of 
the  next-door  neighbor. 

They  never  know  the  excitement  of  expectation,  nor  the  stern 
delight  of  accomplished  effort,  such  as  stir  the  pulse  of  the  man 
who  has  objects,  and  hopes,  and  plans.  To  the  ambitious  man, 
life  is  a  brilliant  game, — a  game  that  calls  forth  all  his  tact,  and 
energy,  and  nerve, —  a  game  to  be  won  in  the  long  run,  by  the 
quick  eye  and  the  steady  hand,  and  yet  having  sufficient  chance 
about  its  working  out  to  give  it  all  the  glorious  zest  of  uncer- 
tainty. He  exults  in  it,  as  the  strong  swimmer  in  the  heaving 
billows,  as  the  athlete  in  the  wrestle,  as  the  soldier  in  the  battle. 

And  if  he  be  defeated,  he  wins  the  grim  joy  of  fighting;  if  he 
lose  the  race,  he,  at  least,  has  had  a  run.  Better  to  work  and 
fail  than  to  sleep  one's  life  away. 

So,  walk  up,  walk  up,  walk  up.  Walk  up,  ladies  and  gentle- 
men! walk  up,  boys  and  girls!  Show  your  skill  and  try  your 
strength;  brave  your  luck,  and  prove  your  pluck.  Walk  up!  The 
show  is  never  closed,  and  the  game  is  always  going.  The  only 
genuine  sport  in  all  the  fair,  gentlemen  —  highly  respectable  and 
strictly  moral  —  patronized  by  the  nobility,  clergy,  and  gentry. 
Established  in  the  year  one,  gentlemen,  and  been  flourishing  ever 
since !  —  walk  up.  Walk  up,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  and  take  a 
hand.  There  are  prizes  for  all,  and  all  can  play.  There  is  gold 
for  the  man  and  fame  for  the  boy;  rank  for  the  maiden  and 
pleasure  for  the  fool.  So  walk  up,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  walk 
up!  —  all  prizes,  and  no  blanks;  for  some  few  win,  and  as  to  the 
rest,  why  — 

*  The  rapture  of  pursuing 
Is  the  prize  the  vanquished  gain." 

Complete. 


2375 


DOUGLAS  JERROLD 

(1803-1857) 

JOUGLAS  William  Jerrold,  author  of  Mrs.  Caudle's  immortal 
<' Curtain  Lectures,'*  was  bom  in  London,  January  3d,  1803. 
He  was  the  eldest  son  of  an  actor,  Samuel  Jerrold,  who 
introduced  him  to  stage  life  at  a  very  early  age.  Not  fancying  the 
stage,  he  left  it  at  the  age  of  sixteen  and  entered  the  navy  as  a 
midshipman.  After  two  years'  service,  he  returned  to  London  and 
began  his  literary  career  as  apprentice  to  a  printer,  working  in  the 
shop  and  using  his  leisure  to  write  contributions  for  the  magazines. 
In  1829  « Black-Eyed  Susan, *>  his  first  successful  play,  was  produced, 
and  several  years  later  he  attempted  the  management  of  the  Strand 
Theatre.  Ndt  succeeding,  he  returned  to  writing  for  the  magazines, 
and  in  1841,  when  Punch  appeared,  he  became  one  of  its  favorite 
contributors.  His  articles  signed  "Q.'*  continued  to  appear  in  it, 
until  his  death.  June  8th,  1857.  He  wrote  a  large  number  of  plays  as 
well  as  essays,  sketches,  and  stories.  Next  to  <*  Mrs.  Caudle's  Curtain 
Lectures,"  his  ^<  Story  of  a  Feather"  is  the  most  widely  circulated  of 
his  works. 


BARBARISM    IN   BIRDCAGE   WALK 

MAY  we  ask  the  reader  to  behold  with  us  a  melancholy  show 
—  a  saddening,  miserable  spectacle  ?  We  will  not  take 
him  to  prison,  a  workhouse,  a  Bedlam,  where  human  na- 
ture expiates  its  guiltiness,  its  lack  of  worldly  goods,  its  most 
desolate  perplexity;  but  we  will  take  him  to  a  wretchedness,  first 
contrived  by  wrong  and  perpetrated  by  folly.  We  will  show  him 
the  embryo  mischief  that  in  due  season  shall  be  born  in  the 
completion  of  its  terror,  and  shall  be  christened  with  a  sounding 
name, —  Folly  and  Wickedness  standing  its  sponsors. 

We  are  in  vSt.  James's  Park.  The  royal  standard  of  England 
burns  in  the  summer  air  —  the  Queen  is  in  London.  Wc  pass 
the  Palace,  and  in  a  few  paces  are  in  Birdcage  Walk.  There, 
reader,  is  the  miserable  show  we  promised  you.  There  are  some 
fifty   recruits,    drilled   by    a   sergeant   to   do    homicide,    killingly, 


2376  DOUGLAS  JERROLD 

handsomely.  In  Birdcage  Walk  Glory  sits  upon  her  eggs,  and 
hatches  eagles! 

How  very  beautiful  is  the  sky  above  us!  What  a  blessing 
comes  with  the  fresh,  quick  air !  The  trees,  drawing  their  green 
beauty  from  the  earth,  quicken  our  thoughts  of  the  bounteous- 
ness  of  this  teeming  world.  Here  in  this  nook,  this  patch, 
where  we  yet  feel  the  vibrations  of  surrounding  London  —  even 
here  Nature,  constant  in  her  beauty,  blooms  and  smiles,  uplift- 
ing the  heart  of  man  —  if  the  heart  be  his  to  own  her. 

Now,  look  aside  and  contemplate  God's  image  with  a  musket. 
Your  bosom  duly  expanding  with  gratitude  to  Nature  for  the 
blessings  she  has  heaped  about  you,  behold  the  crowning  glory 
of  God's  work  managed,  like  a  machine,  to  slay  the  image  of 
God  —  to  stain  the  teeming  earth  with  homicidal  blood  —  to  fill  the 
air  with  howling  anguish!  Is  not  yonder  row  of  clowns  a  mel- 
ancholy sight?  Yet  are  they  the  sucklings  of  Glory — the  baby 
mighty  ones  of  a  future  Gazette.  Reason  beholds  them  with  a 
deep  pity.  Imagination  magnifies  them  into  fiends  of  wicked- 
ness. There  is  carnage  about  them  —  carnage,  and  the  pestilen- 
tial vapor  of  the  slaughtered.  What  a  fine-looking  thing  is  war! 
Yet  dress  it  as  we  may,  dress  and  feather  it,  daub  it  with  gold, 
huzza  it  and  sing  swaggering  songs  about  it  —  what  is  it,  nine 
times  out  of  ten  —  but  murder  in  uniform  ?  Cain  taking  the  ser- 
geant's shilling  ? 

And  now  we  hear  the  fifes  and  drums  of  her  Majesty's  gren- 
adiers. They  pass  on  the  other  side;  and  a  crowd  of  idlers,  their 
hearts  jumping  to  the  music,  their  eyes  dazzled,  and  their  feel- 
ings perverted,  hang  about  the  march  and  catch  the  infection  — 
the  love  of  glory!  And  true  wisdom  thinks  of  the  world's  age, 
and  sighs  at  its  slow  advance  in  all  that  really  dignifies  man, — 
the  truest  dignity  being  the  truest  love  for  his  fellow.  And 
then  hope,  and  faith  in  human  progress,  contemplate  the  pageant, 
its  real  ghastliness  disguised  by  outward  glare  and  frippery,  and 
know  the  day  will  come  when  the  symbols  of  war  will  be  as  the 
sacred  beasts  of  old  Egypt  —  things  to  mark  the  barbarism  of  by- 
gone war;  melancholy  records  of  the  past  perversity  of  human 
nature. 

We  can  imagine  the  deep-chested  laughter — the  look  of  scorn 
which  would  annihilate,  and  then  the  smile  of  compassion  —  of 
the  man  of  war  at  this,  the  dream  of  folly  and  the  wanderings 
of  an  inflamed  brain.      Yet,  O  man  of  war!  at  this  very  moment 


DOUGLAS  JERROLD  2377 

are  you  shrinking,  withering  like  an  aged  giant.  The  fin- 
gers of  Opinion  have  been  busy  at  your  plume  —  you  are  not  the 
feathered  thing  you  were;  and  then  that  little  tube,  the  goose 
quill,  has  sent  its  silent  shot  into  your  huge  anatomy;  and  the 
corroding  ink,  even  whilst  you  look  at  it,  and  think  it  shines  so 
brightly,   is  eating  with  a  tooth  of  rust  into  your  sword. 

That  a  man  should  kill  a  man  and  rejoice  in  the  deed  —  nay, 
gather  glory  from  it  —  is  the  act  of  a  wild  animal.  The  force  of 
muscle  and  the  dexterity  of  limb  which  make  the  wild  man  a 
conqueror  are  deemed,  in  savage  life,  man's  highest  attributes. 
The  creature  whom,  in  the  pride  of  our  Christianity,  we  call  hea- 
then and  spiritually  desolate,  has  some  personal  feeling  in  the 
strife  —  he  kills  his  enemy,  and  then,  making  an  oven  of  hot 
stones,  bakes  his  dead  body,  and,  for  crowning  satisfaction,  eats  it. 
His  enemy  becomes  a  part  of  him;  his  glory  is  turned  to  nutri- 
ment ;  and  he  is  content.  What  barbarism !  Field  marshals  sicken 
at  the  horror;  nay,  troopers  shudder  at  the  tale,  like  a  fine  lady 
at  a  toad. 

In  what,  then,  consists  the  prime  evil  ?  In  the  murder,  or  in 
the  meal?  Which  is  the  most  hideous  deed  —  to  kill  a  man,  or 
to  cook  and  eat  the  man  when  killed  ? 

But,  softly,  there  is  no  murder  in  the  case.  The  craft  of  man 
has  made  a  splendid  ceremony  of  homicide  —  has  invested  it  with 
dignity.  He  slaughters  with  flags  flying,  drums  beating,  trump- 
ets braying.  He  kills  according  to  method,  and  has  worldly  hon- 
ors for  his  grim  handiwork.  He  does  not,  like  the  unchristian 
savage,  carry  away  with  him  mortal  trophies  from  the  skulls  of 
his  enemies.  No,  the  alchemy  and  magic  of  authority  turn  his 
well-won  scalps  into  epaulets,  or  hang  them  in  stars  and  crosses 
at  his  buttonhole;  and  then,  the  battle  over,  the  dead  not  eaten 
but  carefully  buried  —  and  the  maimed  and  mangled  howling  and 
blaspheming  in  hospitals  —  the  meek  Christian  warrior  marches 
to  church,  and  reverently  folding  his  sweet  and  spotless  hands, 
sings  Te  Deum.  Angels  wave  his  fervent  thanks  to  God,  to 
whose  footstool  — in  his  own  faith— he  has  so  lately  sent  his 
shuddering  thousands.  And  this  spirit  of  destruction  working 
within  him  is  canonized  by  the  craft  and  ignorance  of  man  and 
worshiped  as  glory! 

And  this  religion  of  the  sword  —  this  dazzling  heathenism, 
that  makes  a  pomp  of  wickedness  —  seizes  and  distracts  us  even 
on  the  threshold  of  life.      Swords  and  drums  are  our  baby  play- 


2378  DOUGLAS  JERROLD 

things;  the  types  of  violence  and  destruction  are  made  the  petty 
pastimes  of  our  childhood;  and  as  we  grow  older,  the  outward 
magnificence  of  the  ogre  Glory  —  his  trappings  and  his  trumpets, 
his  privileges,  and  the  songs  that  are  shouted  in  his  praise  —  en- 
snare the  bigger  baby  to  his  sacrifice.  Hence  slaughter  becomes 
an  exalted  profession;  the  marked,  distinguished  employment  of 
what  in  the  jargon  of  the  world  is  called  a  gentleman. 

But  for  this  craft  operating  upon  this  ignorance,  who  —  in  the 
name  of  outraged  God  —  would  become  the  hireling  of  the  sword  ? 
Hodge,  poor  fellow,  enlists.  He  wants  work;  or  he  is  idle,  disso- 
lute. Kept,  by  the  injustice  of  the  world,  as  ignorant  as  the 
farmyard  swine,  he  is  the  better  instrument  for  the  world's  craft. 
His  ear  is  tickled  with  the  fife  and  drum;  or  he  is  drunk;  or 
the  sergeant  —  the  lying  valet  of  glory  —  tell  a  good  tale,  and  al- 
ready Hodge  is  a  warrior  in  the  rough.  In  a  fortnight's  time 
you  may  see  him  at  Chatham;  or,  indeed,  he  was  one  of  those  we 
marked  in  Birdcage  Walk.  Day  by  day  the  sergeant  works  at 
the  block  plowman,  and,  chipping  and  chipping,  at  length  carves 
out  a  true,  handsome  soldier  of  the  line.  What  knew  Hodge  of 
the  responsibility  of  man  ?  What  dreams  had  he  of  the  self- 
accountability  of  the  human  spirit  ?  He  is  become  the  lackey  of 
carnage,  the  liveried  footman,  at  a  few  pence  per  day,  of  fire  and 
blood.  The  musket  stock,  which  for  many  an  hour  he  hugs  — 
hugs  in  sulks  and  weariness —  was  no  more  a  party  to  its  pres- 
ent use  than  was  Hodge.  That  piece  of  walnut  is  the  fragment 
of  a  tree  that  might  have  given  shade  and  fruit  for  another  cen- 
tury; homely,  rustic  people  gathering  under  it.  Now  it  is  the 
instrument  of  wrong  and  violence,  the  working  tool  of  slaughter. 
Tree  and  man,  are  not  their  destinies  as  one  ? 

And  is  Hodge  alone  of  benighted  mind  ?  Is  he  alone  deficient 
of  that  knowledge  of  moral  right  and  wrong,  which  really  and 
truly  crowns  the  man  king  of  himself  ?  When  he  surrenders  up 
his  nature,  a  mere  machine  with  human  pulses  to  do  the  bidding 
of  war,  has  he  taken  counsel  with  his  own  reflection  —  does  he 
know  the  limit  of  the  sacrifice  ?  He  has  taken  his  shilling,  and 
knows  the  facings  of  his  uniform! 

When  the  born  and  bred  gentleman,  to  keep  to  coined  and 
current  terms,  pays  down  his  thousand  pounds  or  so  for  his  com- 
mission, what  incites  to  the  purchase  ?  It  may  be  the  elegant 
idleness  of  the  calling;  it  may  be  the  bullion  and  glitter  of  the 
regimentals;   or,  devout  worshiper,  it   may   be   an   unquenchable 


DOUGLAS  JERROLD  2379 

thirst  for  glory.  From  the  moment  when  his  name  stars  the 
Gazette,  what  does  he  become  ?  The  bond  servant  of  war  !  In- 
stantly he  ceases  to  be  a  judge  between  moral  right  and  moral 
injury.  It  is  his  duty  not  to  think,  but  to  obey.  He  has  given 
up,  surrendered  to  another  the  freedom  of  his  soul;  he  has  de- 
throned the  majesty  of  his  own  will.  He  must  be  active  in 
wrong,  and  see  not  the  injustice;  shed  blood  for  craft  and  usur- 
pation, calling  bloodshed  valor.  He  may  be  made,  by  the  iniquity 
of  those  who  use  him,  a  burglar  and  a  brigand;  but  glory  calls 
him  pretty  names  for  his  prowess,  and  the  wicked  weakness  of 
the  world  shouts  and  acknowledges  him.  And  is  this  the  true 
condition  of  reasonable  man  ?  Is  it  by  such  means  that  he  best 
vindicates  the  greatness  of  his  mission  here  ?  Is  he  when  he 
most  gives  up  the  free  motions  of  his  own  soul  —  is  he  then  most 
glorious  ? 

A  few  months  ago  chance  showed  us  a  band  of  ruffians  who, 
as  it  afterwards  appeared,  were  intent  upon  most  desperate  mis- 
chief. They  spread  themselves  over  the  country,  attacking,  rob- 
bing, and  murdering  all  who  fell  into  their  hands.  Men,  women, 
and  children  all  suffered  alike.  Nor  were  the  villains  satisfied 
with  this.  In  their  wanton  ruthlessness  they  set  fire  to  cottages, 
and  tore  up  and  destroyed  plantations.  Every  footpace  of  their 
march  was  marked  with  blood  and  desolation. 

Who  were  these  wretches  ?  you  ask.  What  place  did  they  rav- 
age ?     Were  they  not  caught  and  punished  ? 

They  were  a  part  of  the  army  of  Africa;  valorous  French- 
men, bound  for  Algiers  to  cut  Arab  throats;  and,  in  the  name  of 
glory,  and  for  the  everlasting  glory  of  France,  to  burn,  pillage, 
and  despoil;  and  all  for  national  honor  —  all  for  glory! 

But  Glory  cannot  dazzle  Truth.  Does  it  not  at  times  appear 
no  otherwise  than  a  highwayman  with  a  pistol  at  a  nation's 
breast  ?  a  burglar  with  a  crowbar  entering  a  kingdom  ?  Alas!  in 
this  world  there  is  no  Old  Bailey  for  nations,  otherwise  where 
would  have  been  the  crowned  heads  that  divided  Poland  ?  Those 
felon  monarchs  anointed  to  —  steal?  It  is  true  the  historian 
claps  the  cutpursc  conqueror  in  the  dock,  and  he  is  tried  by  the 
jury  of  posterity.  He  is  past  the  verdict,  yet  is  not  its  damna- 
tory voice  lost  upon  generations  ?  For  thus  is  the  world  taught 
— -^ albeit  slowly  taught  —  true  glory;  when  that  which  passed  for 
virtue  is  truly  tested  to  be  vile;  when  the  hero  is  hauled  from 
the  car  and  fixed  forever  in  the  pillory. 


2380  DOUGLAS  JERROLD 

But  war  brings  forth  the  heroism  of  the  soul;  war  tests  the 
magnanimity  of  man.  Sweet  is  the  humanity  that  spares  a  fallen 
foe;  gracious  the  compassion  that  tends  his  wounds,  that  brings 
even  a  cup  of  water  to  his  burning  lips.  Granted.  But  is  there 
not  a  heroism  of  a  grander  mold  —  the  heroism  of  forbearance  ? 
Is  not  the  humanity  that  refuses  to  strike  a  nobler  virtue  than 
the  late  pity  bom  of  violence  ?  Pretty  is  it  to  see  the  victor 
with  salve  and  lint  to  his  bloody  trophy  —  a  maimed  and  ago- 
nized fellowman;  but  surely  it  had  been  better  to  withhold  the 
blow  than  to  have  first  been  mischievous,  to  be  afterwards  hu- 
mane. 

That  nations  professing  a  belief  in  Christ  should  couple  glory 
with  war  is  monstrous  blasphemy.  Their  faith,  their  professing 
faith,  is  —  "Love  one  another**;  their  practice  is  to  —  cut  throats; 
and  more,  to  bribe  and  hoodwink  men  to  the  wickedness,  the  trade 
of  blood  is  magnified  into  a  virtue.  We  pray  against  battle,  and 
glorify  the  deeds  of  death.  We  say  beautiful  are  the  ways  of 
peace,  and  then  cocker  ourselves  upon  our  perfect  doings  in  the 
art  of  manslaying.  Let  us  then  cease  to  pay  the  sacrifice  of 
admiration  to  the  demon  —  War;  let  us  not  acknowledge  him  as 
a  mighty  and  majestic  principle,  but  at  the  very  best  a  grim 
and  melancholy  necessity. 

But  there  always  has  been  —  there  always  will  be  —  war.  It 
is  inevitable;  it  is  a  part  of  the  condition  of  human  society. 
Man  has  always  made  glory  to  himself  from  the  destruction  of 
his  fellow;  so  it  will  continue.  It  may  be  very  pitiable;  would 
it  were  otherwise!     But  so  it  is,   and  there  is  no  helping  it. 

Happily  we  are  slowly  killing  this  destructive  fallacy.  A  long 
breathing  time  of  peace  has  been  fatal  to  the  dread  magnificence 
of  glory.  Science  and  philosophy — povera  e  niida  filosofia  —  have 
made  good  their  claims,  inducing  man  to  believe  that  he  may 
vindicate  the  divinity  of  his  nature  otherwise  than  by  perpetrat- 
ing destruction.  He  begins  to  think  there  is  a  better  glory  in 
the  communication  of  triumphs  of  the  mind  than  in  the  clash  of 
steel  and  the  roar  of  artillery.  At  the  present  moment  a  society, 
embracing  men  of  distant  nations  — "  natural  enemies,  *  as  the 
old  wicked  cant  of  the  old  patriotism  had  it  —  is  at  work  pluck- 
ing the  plumes  from  Glory,  unbracing  his  armor,  and  divesting 
the  ogre  of  all  that  dazzled  foolish  and  unthinking  men,  showing 
the  rascal  in  his  natural  hideousness,  in  all  his  base  deformity. 
Some,  too,  are  calculating  the  cost   of   Glory's  table;  some  show- 


DOUGLAS  JERROLD  2381 

ing  what  an  appetite  the  demon  has,  devouring  at  a  meal  the 
substance  of  these  thousand  sons  of  industry  —  yea,  eating  up  the 
wealth  of  kingdoms.  And  thus  by  degrees  are  men  beginning 
to  look  upon  this  god  Glory  as  no  more  than  a  finely  trapped 
Sawney  Bean  —  a  monster  and  a  destroyer — a  nuisance  —  a  noisy 
lie. 

Complete.     From  the  «  Handbook  of 
Swindling.* 


2382 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

(1 709- 1 7  84) 

IT  IS  as  unpardonable  not  to  know  Samuel  Johnson  in  his  va- 
J[  rious  moods  as  an  essayist  as  it  would  be  to  pretend  to  love 
^-  his  prose  style  as  we  may  love  that  of  Addison  or  Irving, 
Earle  or  Fuller.  He  was  a  great  man,  and  in  the  eighteenth  century 
a  great  writer.  He  will  always  remain  a  great  man  —  virile,  full  of 
virfus,  daring  to  be  himself  at  any  cost,  including  the  actual  experi- 
ence of  misery  verging  close  on  starvation;  fierce  in  the  assertion  of 
his  right  to  count  for  a  unit  in  creation  and  not  to  be  overborne  by 
any  one,  gentle  or  common,  noble  or  ignoble;  yet  under  this  fierce- 
ness so  tender  that  from  the  depths  of  his  sympathy  for  the  suf- 
fering of  others  we  may  judge  how  deeply  he  himself  must  have 
suffered  under  — 

«The  insolence  of  office  and  the  spurns 
That  patient  merit  of  the  unworthy  takes. » 

We  can  see  his  sensibility  still  more  plainly  when  he  writes  Lord 
Chesterfield :  «  The  notice  which  you  have  been  pleased  to  take  of  my 
labors,  had  it  been  early,  had  been  kind.»  That  rebuke,  the  proudest 
which  struggling  merit  ever  administered  to  the  vanity  of  fashionable 
culture,  we  could  not  wish  to  have  been  other  than  it  was.  From 
the  time  Homer  learned  to  describe  the  insolence  of  the  suitors  of 
Penelope  at  meals,  by  his  own  experience  in  living  on  scraps  from 
lordly  tables,  to  the  Augustan  Age  when  Horace  and  Virgil  were 
obliged  to  buy  permission  to  become  immortal  at  the  price  of  the 
meanest  sycophancy  to  power;  — from  the  very  beginning  of  litera- 
ture until  Teutonic  individuality  met  the  pride  of  aristocratic  power 
in  the  Teutoburgerwald  and  with  naked  breast  bore  it  backward,— 
there  was  never  the  match  of  that  reply  from  this  plebeian  «  son  of 
John»  to  his  lord.  When  in  the  time  of  Tacitus,  the  German  ances- 
tors of  the  remote  and  unknown  English  «  John,»  who  begot  the  orig- 
inal «Johnson,»  waded  the  Rhine  bare-legged  through  broken  ice, 
making  their  way  towards  Rome,  they  were  preparing  the  world  for 
the  coming  of  this  heroic  soul,  fitted  by  the  anguish  of  deep  and 
long-continued  humiliation  for  the  pride  of  this  answer.  To  be 
« humble  with  the  humble  and  haughty  with  the  proud »  is  the  high- 
est of  the  merely  human  virtues,  but  it  is  truly  assumed  in  the  my- 
thology of  the  race  which  produced  the  « Johnsons »  that  human 
virtues   belong   to  «Midgard,»  — the  « middle   yard,»  — a  condition  of 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON  2383 

soul  in  which  the  celestial  and  infernal  powers  are  forever  blent, — 
not  in  harmony,  but  in  the  keen  struggle  of  hand-to-hand  fighting. 
We  would  be  above  or  below  humanity  not  to  love  Johnson  for  the 
pride  of  his  poverty,  but  no  genius  of  Carlyle,  Taine,  or  Macaulay 
can  change  by  eulogy  the  law  under  which  the  human  soul  acts  in 
doing  its  creative  work.  Complete  self-forgetfulness,  the  absorption 
of  the  artist  in  his  art,  is  the  first  necessity  of  great  creative  work, 
and  for  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson,  whether  in  Grub  Street  poverty  or  as 
the  flattered  author  of  the  Dictionary  and  the  "  Great  Cham  of  Lit- 
erature^^ in  his  day,  complete  self-forgetfulness  was  never  possible. 
The  panoplied  dignity  he  asserted  against  Chesterfield  stiffens  his  es- 
says and  robs  them  of  the  grace  which,  if  they  only  had  it,  would 
make  them  the  great  intellectual  masterpieces  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury. Among  the  great  intellects  of  England  in  that  century,  none 
was  stronger  than  Samuel,  Johnson,  but  in  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven 
in  literature  where  the  sweetness  of  Addison  and  the  tender  love  of 
Thackeray  for  all  goodness  are  the  highest  laws,  he  that  is  least  is 
greater  than  he.  Yet  when  we  see  this  uncouth  and  almost  absurd 
figure  coming  from  the  wilderness  of  Grub  Street  garrets,  in  the 
rusty  camel's-hair  of  his  threadbare  coat,  shambling  towards  the 
twentieth  century,  mumbling  to  himself  and  making  strange  gestures 
as  he  approaches,  we  would  be  unworthy,  indeed,  of  his  sacrifices,  if 
we  did  not  uncover  and  do  him  the  deepest  reverence  as  to  the 
John  the  Baptist  of  a  new  dispensation  in  literature  —  a  dispensation 
which  the  journalist  Franklin  illustrated  when  at  table  he  pledged 
the  trade  lords  of  Philadelphia  in  water  gruel  and  told  them  that 
those  who  could  live  on  it  needed  no  man's  patronage.  Samuel 
Johnson  made  that  possible.  To  realize  what  it  means  to  literature, 
we  have  only  to  read  Dryden's  prefaces  and  the  average  « dedica- 
tion >^  of  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centuries.  In  modern  times 
no  greater  work  has  been  done  for  the  world  than  that  which  ac- 
complished the  revolution  from  such  conditions.  It  made  Truth  pos- 
sible for  genius,  and  set  so  high  a  standard  of  manhood  in  literature, 
that  no  man  of  real  intellect  dares  now  to  be  openly  the  sycophant 
of  Vanity,  Folly  and  Falsehood  —  even  when  these  hold  all  the 
avenues  of  preferment,  and  demand  subservience  as  the  price  of 
advancement. 

Owing  this  and  more  to  Samuel  Johnson,  we  ought  to  thank 
Heaven  for  him  and  to  read  his  Rambler  and  Idler  essays,  his  "  Rasse- 
las."  his  poems,  his  biographies,  and  his  Dictionary  too,  to  learn  what 
manner  of  man  he  was  in  the  realities  back  of  the  uncqualed  por- 
trait Boswell  has  left. 

When  once  or  twice  in  a  century  heaven  sends  a  Man  on  earth  to 
show  us  what  manhood  means,  we  cannot  learn  too  much  of  him. 
And  Samuel  Johnson  was  a  Man.  W.  V.  B. 


2384  SAMUEL  JOHNSON 


OMAR,  THE  SON  OF  HASSAN 

OMAR,  the  son  of  Hassan,  had  passed  seventy-five  years  in 
honor  and  prosperity.  The  favor  of  three  successive  caliphs 
had  filled  his  house  with  gold  and  silver;  and  whenever 
he  appeared,  the  benedictions  of  the  people  proclaimed  his  pas- 
sage. 

Terrestrial  happiness  is  of  short  continuance.  The  brightness 
of  the  flame  is  wasting  its  fuel;  the  fragrant  flower  is  passing 
away  in  its  own  odors.  The  vigor  of  Omar  began  to  fail,  the 
curls  of  beauty  fell  from  his  head,  strength  departed  from  his 
hands,  and  agility  from  his  feet.  He  gave  back  to  the  caliph  the 
keys  of  trust  and  the  seals  of  secrecy;  and  sought  no  other  pleas- 
ure for  the  remains  of  life  than  the  converse  of  the  wise,  and  the 
gratitude  of  the  good. 

The  powers  of  his  mind  were  yet  unimpaired.  His  chamber 
was  filled  by  visitants,  eager  to  catch  the  dictates  of  experience, 
and  officious  to  pay  the  tribute  of  admiration.  Caled,  the  son  of 
the  viceroy  of  Egypt,  entered  every  day  early,  and  retired  late. 
He  was  beautiful  and  eloquent;  Omar  admired  his  wit  and  loved 
his  docility.  Tell  me,  said  Caled,  thou  to  whose  voice  nations 
have  listened,  and  whose  wisdom  is  known  to  the  extremities  of 
Asia,  tell  me  how  I  may  resemble  Omar  the  prudent.  The  arts 
by  which  you  have  gained  power  and  preserved  it  are  to  you  no 
longer  necessary  or  useful;  impart  to  me  the  secret  of  your  con- 
duct, and  teach  me  the  plan  upon  which  your  wisdom  has  built 
your  fortune. 

Young  man,  said  Omar,  it  is  of  little  use  to  form  plans  of 
life.  When  I  took  my  first  survey  of  the  world,  in  my  twentieth 
year,  having  considered  the  various  conditions  of  mankind,  in  the 
hour  of  solitude  I  said  thus  to  myself,  leaning  against  a  cedar 
which  spread  its  branches  over  my  head :  —  Seventy  years  are 
allowed  to  man;  I  have  yet  fifty  remaining:  ten  years  I  will  allot 
to  the  attainment  of  knowledge,  and  ten  I  will  pass  in  foreign 
countries;  I  shall  be  learned,  and  therefore  shall  be  honored; 
every  city  will  shout  at  my  arrival,  and  every  student  will  solicit 
my  friendship.  Twenty  years  thus  passed  will  store  my  mind 
with  images  which  I  shall  be  busy  through  the  rest  of  my  life  in 
combining  and  comparing.  I  shall  revel  in  inexhaustible  accu- 
mulations of  intellectual   riches;    I   shall  find  new  pleasures  for 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON  2385 

every  moment,  and  shall  never  more  be  weary  of  myself.  I  will, 
however,  not  deviate  too  far  from  the  beaten  track  of  life,  but 
will  try  what  can  be  found  in  female  delicacy.  I  will  marry  a 
wife  beautiful  as  the  Houries,  and  wise  as  Zobeide;  with  her  I 
will  live  twenty  years  within  the  suburbs  of  Bagdad,  in  every 
pleasure  that  wealth  can  purchase  and  fancy  can  invent.  I  will 
then  retire  to  a  rural  dwelling,  pass  my  last  days  in  obscurity 
and  contemplation,  and  lie  silently  down  on  the  bed  of  death. 
Through  my  life  it  shall  be  my  settled  resolution  that  I  will 
never  depend  upon  the  smile  of  princes;  that  I  will  never  stand 
exposed  to  the  artifices  of  courts;  I  will  never  pant  for  public 
honors,  nor  disturb  my  quiet  with  the  aflFairs  of  state.  Such  was 
my  scheme  of  life,  which  I  impressed  indelibly  upon  my  memory. 

The  first  part  of  my  ensuing  time  was  to  be  spent  in  search 
of  knowledge;  and  I  know  not  how  I  was  diverted  from  my  de- 
sign. I  had  no  visible  impediments  without,  nor  any  ungovern- 
able passions  within.  I  regarded  knowledge  as  the  highest  honor 
and  the  most  engaging  pleasure;  yet  day  stole  upon  day,  and 
month  glided  after  month,  till  I  found  that  seven  years  of  the 
first  ten  had  vanished,  and  left  nothing  behind  them.  I  now 
postponed  my  purpose  of  traveling;  for  why  should  I  go  abroad 
while  so  much  remained  to  be  learned  at  home  ?  I  immured 
myself  for  four  years,  and  studied  the  laws  of  the  empire.  The 
fame  of  my  skill  reached  the  judges;  I  was  found  able  to  speak 
upon  doubtful  questions,  and  was  commanded  to  stand  at  the  foot- 
stool of  the  caliph.  I  was  heard  with  attention,  I  was  consulted 
with  confidence,  and  the  love  of  praise  fastened  on  my  heart. 

I  still  wished  to  see  distant  countries,  listened  with  rapture  to 
the  relations  of  travelers,  and  resolved  some  time  to  ask  my  dis- 
mission that  I  might  feast  my  soul  with  novelty;  but  my  pres- 
ence was  always  necessary,  and  the  stream  of  business  hurried 
me  along.  Sometimes  I  was  afraid  lest  I  should  be  charged  with 
ingratitude;  but  I  still  proposed  to  travel,  and  therefore  would 
not  confine  myself  by  marriage. 

In  my  fiftieth  year  I  began  to  suspect  that  the  time  of  trav- 
eling was  past,  and  thought  it  best  to  lay  hold  on  the  felicity 
yet  in  my  power,  and  indulge  myself  in  domestic  pleasures.  But 
at  fifty  no  man  easily  finds  a  woman  beautiful  as  the  Houries, 
and  wise  as  Zobeide.  I  inquired  and  rejected,  consulted  and  de- 
liberated, till  the  sixty-second  year  made  me  ashamed  of  gazing 
upon  girls.  I  had  now  nothing  left  but  retirement,  and  for 
VI— 150 


2386  SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

retirement  I  never  found  a  time,  till  disease  forced  me  from  public 

employment. 

Such  was  my  scheme,  and  such  has  been  its  consequence. 
With  an  insatiable  thirst  for  knowledge,  I  trifled  away  the  years 
of  improvement;  with  a  restless  desire  of  seeing  different  coun- 
tries, I  have  always  resided  in  the  same  city;  with  the  highest 
expectation  of  connubial  felicity,  I  have  lived  unmarried;  and 
with  unalterable  resolutions  of  contemplative  retirement,  I  am 
going  to  die  within  the  walls  of  Bagdad. 

Complete.     Number  loi  of 
the  Idler. 


DIALOGUE   IN  A  VULTURE'S   NEST 

MANY  naturalists  are  of  opinion  that  the  animals  which  we 
commonly  consider  as  mute  have  the  power  of  imparting 
their  thoughts  to  one  another.  That  they  can  express 
general  sensations  is  very  certain:  every  being  that  can  utter 
sounds  has  a  different  voice  for  pleasure  and  for  pain.  The 
hound  informs  his  fellows  when  he  scents  his  game;  the  hen 
calls  her  chickens  to  their  food  by  her  cluck,  and  drives  them 
from  danger  by  her  scream. 

Birds  have  the  greatest  variety  of  notes;  they  have,  indeed,  a 
variety,  which  seems  almost  sufficient  to  make  a  speech  adequate 
to  the  purposes  of  a  life  which  is  regulated  by  instinct,  and  can 
admit  little  change  or  improvement.  To  the  cries  of  birds  curi- 
osity or  superstition  has  been  always  attentive;  many  have  stud- 
ied the  language  of  the  feathered  tribes,  and  some  have  boasted 
that  they  understood  it. 

The  most  skillful  or  most  confident  interpreters  of  the  sylvan 
dialogues  have  been  commonly  found  among  the  philosophers  of 
the  East,  in  a  country  where  the  calmness  of  the  air  and  the 
mildness  of  the  seasons  allow  the  student  to  pass  a  great  part 
of  the  year  in  groves  and  bowers.  But  what  may  be  done  in 
one  place  by  peculiar  opportunities  may  be  performed  in  another 
by  peculiar  diligence.  A  shepherd  of  Bohemia  has,  by  long 
abode  in  the  forests,  enabled  himself  to  understand  the  voice  of 
birds;  at  least  he  relates  with  great  confidence  a  story,  of  which 
the  credibility  is  left  to  be  considered  by  the  learned :  — 

As  I  was  sitting  (said  he)  within  a  hollow  rock,  and  watching 
my  sheep   that  fed  in   the   valley,    I  heard   two    vultures    inter- 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON  2387 

changeably  crying  on  the  summit  of  a  cliff.  Both  voices  were 
earnest  and  deliberate.  My  curiosity  prevailed  over  the  care  of 
the  flock;  I  climbed  slowly  and  silently  from  crag  to  crag,  con- 
cealed among  the  shrubs,  till  I  found  a  cavity  where  I  might  sit 
and  listen  without  suffering,  or  giving  disturbance. 

I  soon  perceived  that  my  labor  would  be  well  repaid,  for  an 
old  vulture  was  sitting  on  a  naked  prominence,  with  her  young 
about  her,  whom  she  was  instructing  in  the  arts  of  a  vulture's 
life,  and  preparing,  by  the  last  lecture,  for  their  final  dismission 
to  the  mountains  and  the  skies. 

My  children,  said  the  old  vulture,  you  will  the  less  want  my 
instructions,  because  you  have  had  my  practice  before  your  eyes; 
you  have  seen  me  snatch  from  the  farm  the  household  fowl,  you 
have  seen  me  seize  the  leveret  in  the  bush,   and    the  kid   in   the 
pasturage;  you  know  how  to  fix  your  talons,   and  how  to  balance 
your  flight  when  you    are   laden   with   your   prey.       But   you    re- 
member the  taste  of  more  dehcious  food.      I   have  often  regaled 
you   with   the   flesh   of   man.       Tell  us,  said  the  young  vultures, 
where  man  may  be  found,  and  how  he  may  be  known;  his  flesh 
is  surely  the   natural   food  of   a  vulture.      Why   have  you  never 
brought  a  man   in   your  talons  to   the   nest  ?     He  is   too   bulky, 
said  the  mother;  when  we  find  a  man  we  can  only  tear  away  his 
flesh,  and  leave  his  bones  upon   the   ground.       Since   man   is   so 
big,  said  the  young  ones,  how  do  you  kill  him  ?     You  are  afraid 
of  the  wolf  and  of   the  bear,  by  what   power  are   vultures   supe- 
rior to  man  ?     Is  man  more  defenseless  than  a  sheep  ?     We  have 
not  the  strength  of  man,  returned  the   mother,    and  I   am  some- 
times in  doubt    whether   we   have    the    subtilty;  and  the  vultures 
would  seldom  feast  upon  his  flesh,   had  not  nature,    that   devoted 
him  to   our   uses,    infused  into   him    a   strange    ferocity,    which    I 
have  never  observed  in  any  other  being  that  feeds  upon  the  earth. 
Two  herds  of  men    will    often    meet    and    shake    the    earth    with 
noise,    and  fill    the   earth   with  fire.       When  you  hear  noise,    and 
see  fire,   with  flashes  along  the  ground,   hasten  to  the  place    with 
your  swiftest  wing,    for   men   are  surely  destroying  one  another; 
you  will  then  find  the  ground  smoking  with  blood  and  covered  with 
carcasses,  of  which  many  are  dismembered,  and  mangled  for  the 
convenience   of   the  vulture.      But  when    men   have   killed   their 
prey,  said  the  pupil,    why  do  they    not    eat    it  ?     When    the   wolf 
has  killed  a  sheep,   he  suff"ers  not  the  vulture  to  touch    it   till  he 
has  satisfied  himself.     Is  not  man  another   kind   of   wolf?     Man, 


238«  SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

said  the  mother,  is  the  only  beast  who  kills  that   which   he  does 
not  devour,  and  this  quality  makes  him  so  much  a  benefactor  to 
our  species.     If  men  kill  our  prey,  and  lay  it   in   our  way,  said 
the  young   one,    what   need   shall  we    have    of   laboring  for  our- 
selves ?     Because  man  will  sometimes,  replied  the  mother,  remain 
for  a  long  time  quiet  in  his  den.     The  old  vultures  will  tell  you 
when  you   are    to   watch   his   motions.      When    you   see   men    in 
great  numbers  moving  close  together,  like  a  flight  of  storks,  you 
may   conclude    that   they   are    hunting,    and   that  you   will    soon 
revel  in  human  blood.      But   still,   said   the   young  one,  I   would 
gladly  know  the  reason  of  this  mutual  slaughter.      I  could  never 
kill  what  I  could  not  eat.     My  child,   said  the  mother,  this  is   a 
question  which  I  cannot  answer,  though  I  am  reckoned  the  most 
subtle   bird  of  the  mountain.       When   I  was  young,    I  used   fre- 
quently to  visit  the  aerie  of  an  old  vulture,  who  dwelt  upon   the 
Carpathian  rocks;  he  had  made  many  observations;    he  knew  the 
places  that  afforded  prey   round   his   habitation,    as   far   in   every 
direction   as   the    strongest   wing   can  fly    between  the  rising  and 
setting  of  the  summer  sun;  he  had  fed    year   after   year   on   the 
entrails  of  men.       His  opinion   was    that   men   had   only  the   ap- 
pearance of  animal  life,  being  really  vegetables    with  the    power 
of  motion;  and  that  as  the  boughs  of  an  oak  are  dashed  together 
by  the  storm,  that  swine  may  fatten  upon  the    fallen   acorns,    so 
men   are  by  some   unaccountable   power   driven  one   against   an- 
other,   till   they   lose    their    motion,    that    vultures   may   be    fed. 
Others  think  they  have  observed    something   of   contrivance    and 
policy  among   these   mischievous    beings;   and    those    that    hover 
more   closely  round   them    pretend   that   there   is   in   every  herd 
one  that  gives  directions  to  the  rest  and  seems  to  be  more    emi- 
nently delighted  with  a  wide  carnage.      What   it  is   that   entitles 
him  to  such  pre-eminence  we  know  not;  he  is  seldom  the  biggest 
or  the  swiftest,  but  he  shows  by  his  eagerness  and  diligence  that 
he  is,  more  than  any  of  the  others,  a  friend  to  the  vultures. 

Complete.     Number  22  of  the  Idler. 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON  2389 


ON   THE   ADVANTAGES   OF    LIVING   IN  A   GARRET 

Oaaav  iir'  OvAifiru  /liftaaav  difiev  avrap  kif  'Oacnj 
TajTiiov  Elvoai<j)v2.Xov,  Iv'  ovpavbq  a/i/Jardg  eIj]. 

—  Homer. 

The  gods  they  challenge,  and  affect  the  skies: 
Heaved  on  Olympus,  tottering  Ossa  stood; 
On  Ossa,  Pelion  nods  with  all  his  wood. 

—  Pope. 

To  THE   Rambler 
^/>.-  — 

NOTHING  has  more  retarded  the  advancement  of  learning  than 
the  disposition  of  vulgar  minds  to  ridicule  and  vilify  what 
they  cannot  comprehend.  All  industry  must  be  excited  by 
hope;  and  as  the  student  often  proposes  no  other  reward  to  him- 
self than  praise,  he  is  easily  discouraged  by  contempt  and  insult. 
He  who  brings  with  him  into  a  clamorous  multitude  the  timidity 
of  recluse  speculation,  and  has  never  hardened  his  front  in  public 
life,  or  accustomed  his  passions  to  the  vicissitudes  and  accidents, 
the  triumphs  and  defeats  of  mixed  conversation,  will  blush  at  the 
stare  of  petulant  incredulity,  and  suffer  himself  to  be  driven,  by 
a  burst  of  laughter,  from  the  fortresses  of  demonstration.  The 
mechanist  will  be  afraid  to  assert  before  hardy  contradictions  the 
possibility  of  tearing  down  bulwarks  with  a  silkworm's  thread; 
and  the  astronomer  of  relating  the  rapidity  of  light,  the  distance 
of  the  fixed  stars,  and  the  height  of  the  lunar  mountains. 

If  I  could  by  any  efforts  have  shaken  off  this  cowardice,  I 
had  not  sheltered  myself  under  a  borrowed  name,  nor  applied  to 
you  for  the  means  of  communicating  to  the  public  the  theory  of 
a  garret;  a  subject  which,  except  some  slight  and  transient  stric- 
tures, has  been  hitherto  neglected  by  those  who  were  best  qual- 
ified to  adorn  it,  cither  for  want  of  leisure  to  prosecute  the 
various  researches  in  which  a  nice  discussion  must  engage  them, 
or  because  it  requires  such  diversity  of  knowledge,  and  such  ex- 
tent of  curiosity,  as  is  scarcely  to  be  found  in  any  single  intel- 
lect; or  perhaps  others  foresaw  the  tumults  which  would  be  raised 
against  them,  and  confined  their  knowledge  to  their  own  breasts, 
and  abandoned  prejudice  and  folly  to  the  direction  of  chance. 

That  the  professors  of  literature  generally  reside  in  the  high- 
est stories    has  been  immemorially  observed.     The  wisdom  of  "the 


2390  SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

Ancients  was  well  acquainted  with  the  intellectual  advantages  of 
an  elevated  situation;  why  else  were  the  Muses  stationed  on 
Olympus,  or  Parnassus,  by  those  who  could  with  equal  right  have 
raised  them  bowers  in  the  vale  of  Tempe,  or  erected  their  altars 
among  the  flexures  of  Meander  ?  Why  was  Jove  himself  nursed 
upon  a  mountain  ?  or  why  did  the  goddesses,  when  the  prize  of 
beauty  was  contested,  try  the  cause  upon  the  top  of  Ida  ?  Such 
were  the  fictions  by  which  the  great  masters  of  the  earlier  ages 
endeavored  to  inculcate  to  posterity  the  importance  of  a  garret, 
which,  though  they  had  been  long  obscured  by  the  negligence 
and  ignorance  of  succeeding  times,  were  well  enforced  by  the 
celebrated  symbol  of  Pythagoras,  dveiiwv  Ttveovrwv  rijv  r^x"^  npotrxuvet] 
^^when  the  wind  blows,  worship  its  echo.  ^^  This  could  not  but  be 
understood  by  his  disciples  as  an  inviolable  injunction  to  live  in 
a  garret,  which  I  have  found  frequently  visited  by  the  echo  and 
the  wind.  Nor  was  the  tradition  wholly  obliterated  in  the  age 
of  Augustus,  for  Tibullus  evidently  congratulates  himself  upon 
his  garret,  not  without  some  allusion  to  the  Pythagorean  precept:  — 

Quern  jurat  imtmtes  ve?itos  audire  cubantem  — 
Aut,gelidas  hybernus  aquas  cum  fuderit  auster, 
Securum  somnos,  imbre  juvante,  sequi ! 

How  sweet  in  sleep  to  pass  the  careless  hours, 
Lull'd  by  the  beating  winds  and  dashing  showers! 

And  it  is  impossible  not  to  discover  the  fondness  of  Lu- 
cretius, an  early  writer,  for  a  garret,  in  his  description  of  the  lofty 
towers  of  serene  learning,  and  of  the  pleasure  with  which  a  wise 
man  looks  down  upon  the  confused  and  erratic  state  of  the  world 
moving  below  him :  — 

Sed  nil  dulcius  est,  bene  quant  munita  tenere 
Edita  doctrina  sapientum  templa  serena; 
Despicere  unde  queas  alios,  passimque  videre 
Errare,  atque  viam  palanteis  qucerere  vitce. 

'Tis  sweet  thy  laboring  steps  to  guide 


To  virtue's  heights,  with  wisdom  well  supplied. 
And  all  the  magazines  of  learning  fortified: 
From  thence  to  look  below  on  human  kind, 
Bewilder'd  in  the  maze  of  life,  and  blind. 

—  Dry  den. 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON  2391 

The  institution  has,  indeed,  continued  to  our  own  time;  the 
garret  is  still  the  usual  receptacle  of  the  philosopher  and  poet; 
but  this,  like  many  ancient  customs,  is  perpetuated  only  by  an 
accidental  imitation,  without  knowledge  of  the  original  reason  for 
which  it  was  established :  — 

Causa  latet:  res  est  notissima. 

The  cause  is  secret,  but  th'  effect  is  known. 

—  Addison. 

Conjectures  have,  indeed,  been  advanced  concerning  these 
habitations  of  literature,  but  without  much  satisfaction  to  the  ju- 
dicious inquirer.  Some  have  imagined  that  the  garret  is  gener- 
ally chosen  by  the  wits  as  most  easily  rented;  and  concluded  that 
no  man  rejoices  in  his  aerial  abode,  but  on  the  days  of  payment. 
Others  suspect  that  a  garret  is  chiefly  convenient,  as  it  is  re- 
moter than  any  other  part  of  the  house  from  the  outer  door, 
which  is  often  observed  to  be  infested  by  visitants,  who  talk  in- 
cessantly of  beer,  or  linen,  or  a  coat,  and  repeat  the  same  sounds 
every  morning,  and  sometimes  again  in  the  afternoon,  without 
any  variation,  except  that  they  grow  daily  more  importunate  and 
clamorous,  and  raise  their  voices  in  time  from  mournful  murmurs 
to  raging  vociferations.  This  eternal  monotony  is  always  detest- 
able to  a  man  whose  chief  pleasure  is  to  enlarge  his  knowledge, 
and  vary  his  ideas.  Others  talk  of  freedom  from  noise,  and  ab- 
straction from  common  business  or  amusements;  and  some,  yet 
more  visionary,  tell  us  that  the  faculties  are  enlarged  by  open 
prospects,  and  that  the  fancy  is  more  at  liberty  when  the  eye 
ranges  without  confinement. 

These  conveniences  may  perhaps  all  be  found  in  a  well-chosen 
garret;  but  surely  they  cannot  be  supposed  sufficiently  important 
to  have  operated  invariably  upon  different  climates,  distant  ages, 
and  separate  nations.  Of  a  universal  practice,  there  must  still 
be  presumed  a  universal  cause,  which,  however  recondite  and  ab- 
struse, may  be  perhaps  reserved  to  make  me  illustrious  by  its 
discovery,  and  you  by  its  promulgation. 

It  is  universally  known  that  the  faculties  of  the  mind  are 
invigorated  or  weakened  by  the  state  of  the  body,  and  that  the 
body  is  in  a  great  measure  regulated  by  the  various  compres- 
sions of  the  ambient  element.  The  effects  of  the  air  in  the  produc- 
tion or  cure  of  corporeal  maladies  have   been  acknowledged  from 


2393  SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

the  time  of  Hippocrates;  but  no  man  has  yet  sufficiently  consid- 
ered how  far  it  may  influence  the  operations  of  the  genius, 
though  every  day  affords  instances  of  local  understanding,  of  wits 
and  reasoners,  whose  faculties  are  adapted  to  some  single  spot, 
and  who,  when  they  are  removed  to  any  other  place,  sink  at  once 
into  silence  and  stupidity.  I  have  discovered  by  a  long  series 
of  observations  that  invention  and  elocution  suffer  great  im- 
pediments from  dense  and  impure  vapors,  and  that  the  tenuity 
of  a  defecated  air  at  a  proper  distance  from  the  surface  of  the 
earth  accelerates  the  fancy  and  sets  at  liberty  those  intellectual 
powers  which  were  before  shackled  by  too  strong  attraction,  and 
unable  to  expand  themselves  under  the  pressure  of  a  gross  atmos- 
phere. I  have  found  dullness  to  quicken  into  sentiment  in  a  thin 
ether,  as  water,  though  not  very  hot,  boils  in  a  receiver  partly 
exhausted;  and  heads,  in  appearance  empty,  have  teemed  with 
notions  upon  rising  ground,  as  the  flaccid  sides  of  a  football 
would  have  swelled  out  into  stiffness  and  extension. 

For  this  reason  I  never  think  myself  qualified  to  judge  de- 
cisively of  any  man's  faculties,  whom  I  have  only  known  in  one 
degree  of  elevation;  but  take  some  opportunity  of  attending  him 
from  the  cellar  to  the  garret,  and  try  upon  him  all  the  vari- 
ous degrees  of  rarefaction  and  condensation,  tension  and  laxity. 
If  he  is  neither  vivacious  aloft,  nor  serious  below,  I  then  con- 
sider him  as  hopeless;  but  as  it  seldom  happens  that  I  do  not 
find  the  temper  to  which  the  texture  of  his  brain  is  fitted,  I  ac- 
commodate him  in  time  with  a  tube  of  mercury,  first  marking 
the  point  most  favorable  to  his  intellects,  according  to  rules 
which  I  have  long  studied,  and  which  I  may  perhaps  reveal  to 
mankind  in  a  complete  treatise  of  barometrical  pneumatology. 

Another  cause  of  the  gayety  and  sprightliness  of  the  dwellers 
in  garrets  is  probably  the  increase  of  that  vertiginous  motion, 
with  which  we  are  carried  round  by  the  diurnal  revolution  of  the 
earth.  The  power  of  agitation  upon  the  spirits  is  well  known; 
every  man  has  felt  his  heart  lightened  in  a  rapid  vehicle,  or  on 
a  galloping  horse;  and  nothing  is  plainer  than  that  he  who  towers 
to  the  fifth  story  is  whirled  through  more  space  by  every  cir- 
cumrotation,  than  another  that  grovels  upon  the  ground  floor.  The 
nations  between  the  tropics  are  known  to  be  fiery,  inconstant,  in- 
ventive, and  fanciful,  because,  living  at  the  utmost  length  of  the 
earth's  diameter,  they  are  carried  about  with  more  swiftness 
than  those  whom  nature  has  placed  nearer  to  the  poles ;  and,  there- 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON  2393 

fore,  as  it  becomes  a  wise  man  to  struggle  with  the  inconve- 
niences of  his  country,  whenever  celerity  and  acuteness  are  requisite, 
we  must  actuate  our  languor  by  taking  a  few  turns  round  the 
centre  in  a  garret. 

If  you  imagine  that  I  ascribe  to  air  motion  and  effects  which 
they  cannot  produce,  I  desire  you  to  consult  your  own  memory,  and 
consider  whether  you  have  never  known  a  man  acquire  reputa- 
tion in  his  garret,  which,  when  fortune  or  a  patron  had  placed 
him  upon  the  first  floor,  he  was  unable  to  maintain;  and  who 
never  recovered  his  former  vigor  of  understanding  till  he  was 
restored  to  his  original  situation.  That  a  garret  will  make  every 
man  a  wit  I  am  very  far  from  supposing;  I  know  there  are  some 
who  would  continue  blockheads  even  on  the  summit  of  the  An- 
des, or  on  the  peak  of  Teneriffe.  But  let  not  any  man  be  con- 
sidered as  unimprovable  till  this  potent  remedy  has  been  tried; 
for  perhaps  he  was  formed  to  be  great  only  in  a  garret,  as  the 
joiner  of  Aretseus  was  rational  in  no  other  place  but  in  his  own 
shop. 

I  think  a  frequent  removal  to  various  distances  from  the 
centre,  so  necessary  to  a  just  estimate  of  intellectual  abilities,  and 
consequently  of  so  great  use  in  education,  that  if  I  hoped  that 
the  public  could  be  persuaded  to  so  expensive  an  experiment,  I 
would  propose  that  there  should  be  a  cavern  dug,  and  a  tower 
erected,  like  those  which  Bacon  describes  in  Solomon's  house, 
for  the  expansion  and  concentration  of  understanding,  according 
to  the  exigence  of  different  employments  or  constitutions.  Perhaps 
some  that  fume  away  in  meditations  upon  time  and  space  in  the 
tower  might  compose  tables  of  interest  at  a  certain  depth;  and 
he  that  upon  level  ground  stagnates  in  silence,  or  creeps  in  nar- 
rative, might  at  the  height  of  half  a  mile  ferment  into  merri- 
ment,  sparkle  with  repartee,   and  froth  with  declamation. 

Addison  observes  that  we  may  find  the  heat  of  Virgil's  climate 
in  some  lines  of  his  "Georgics":  so  when  I  read  a  composition,  I 
immediately  determine  the  height  of  the  author's  habitation.  As 
an  elaborate  performance  is  commonly  said  to  smell  of  the  lamp, 
my  commendation  of  a  noble  thought,  a  sprightly  sally,  or  a  bold 
figure,  is  to  pronounce  it  fresh  from  the  garret;  an  expression 
which  would  break  from  me  upon  the  perusal  of  most  of  your 
papers,  did  I  not  believe  that  you  sometimes  quit  the  garret,  and 
ascend  into  the  cock  loft.  HvrKRTATUs. 

Complete.     Number  117  of  the  Rambler. 


2  394  SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

SOME   OF   SHAKESPEARE'S   FAULTS 

SHAKESPEARE  with  his  exccllencies  has  likewise  faults,  and  faults 
sufficient  to  obscure  and  overwhelm  any  other  merit.  I 
shall  show  them  in  the  proportion  in  which  they  appear  to 
me,  without  envious  malignity  or  superstitious  veneration.  No 
question  can  be  more  innocently  discussed  than  a  dead  poet's 
pretensions  to  renown;  and  little  regard  is  due  to  that  bigotry 
which  sets  candor  higher  than  truth. 

His  first  defect  is  that  to  which  may  be  imputed  most  of  the 
evil  in  books  or  in  men.  He  sacrifices  virtue  to  convenience,  and 
is  so  much  more  careful  to  please  than  to  instruct,  that  he  seems 
to  write  without  any  moral  purpose.  From  his  writings,  indeed, 
a  system  of  social  duty  may  be  selected,  for  he  that  thinks 
reasonably  must  think  morally;  but  his  precepts  and  axioms  drop 
casually  from  him;  he  makes  no  just  distribution  of  good  or 
evil,  nor  is  always  careful  to  show  in  the  virtuous  a  disapproba- 
tion of  the  wicked;  he  carries  his  persons  indifferently  through 
right  and  wrong,  and  at  the  close  dismisses  them  without  further 
care,  and  leaves  their  examples  to  operate  by  chance.  This  fault 
the  barbarity  of  his  age  cannot  estimate;  for  it  is  always  a 
writer's  duty  to  make  the  world  better,  and  justice  is  a  virtue 
independent  of  time  or  place. 

The  plots  are  often  so  loosely  formed  that  a  very  slight  con- 
sideration may  improve  them,  and  so  carelessly  pursued  that  he 
seems  not  always  fully  to  comprehend  his  own  design.  He  omits 
opportunities  of  instructing  or  delighting,  which  the  train  of  his 
story  seems  to  force  upon  him,  and  apparently  rejects  those  ex- 
hibitions which  would  be  more  affecting,  for  the  sake  of  those 
which  are  more  easy. 

It  may  be  observed  that  in  many  of  his  plays  the  latter  part 
is  evidently  neglected.  When  he  found  himself  near  the  end  of 
his  work,  and  in  view  of  his  reward,  he  shortened  the  labor  to 
snatch  the  profit.  He  therefore  remits  his  efforts  where  he 
should  most  vigorously  exert  them,  and  his  catastrophe  is  im- 
probably produced  or  imperfectly  represented. 

He  had  no  regard  to  distinction  of  time  or  place,  but  gives 
to  one  age  or  nation,  without  scruple,  the  customs,  institutions, 
and  opinions  of  another,  at  the  expense  not  only  of  likelihood, 
but  of  possibility.  These  faults  Pope  has  endeavored,  with  more 
zeal  than  judgment,  to  transfer  to  his  imagined  interpolators.    We 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON  2395 

need  not  wonder  to  find  Hector  quoting  Aristotle,  when  we  see 
the  loves  of  Theseus  and  Hippolyta  combined  with  the  Gothic 
mythology  of  fairies,  Shakespeare,  indeed,  was  not  the  only 
violator  of  chronology,  for  in  the  same  age  Sidney,  who  wanted 
not  the  advantages  of  learning,  has,  in  his  ^^  Arcadia, '^  confounded 
the  pastoral  with  the  feudal  times;  the  days  of  innocence,  quiet, 
and  security,  with  those  of  turbulence,  violence,  and  adventure. 

In  his  comic  scenes  he  is  seldom  very  successful  when  he 
engages  his  characters  in  reciprocations  of  smartness  and  con- 
tests of  sarcasm;  their  jests  are  commonly  gross,  and  their 
pleasantry  licentious;  neither  his  gentlemen  nor  his  ladies  have 
much  delicacy,  nor  are  sufficiently  distinguished  from  his  clowns 
by  any  appearance  of  refined  manners.  Whether  he  represented 
the  real  conversation  of  his  time  is  not  easy  to  determine:  the 
reign  of  Elizabeth  is  commonly  supposed  to  have  been  a  time  of 
stateliness,  formality,  and  reserve;  yet  perhaps  the  relaxations  of 
that  severity  were  not  ver}^  elegant.  There  must,  however,  have 
been  always  some  modes  of  gayety  preferable  to  others,  and  a 
writer  ought  to  choose  the  best. 

In  tragedy  his  performance  seems  constantly  to  be  worse,  as 
his  labor  is  more.  The  effusions  of  passion  which  exigence  forces 
out  are  for  the  most  part  striking  and  energetic;  but  whenever 
he  solicits  his  invention,  or  strains  his  faculties,  the  offspring  of 
his  throes  is  tumor,  meanness,  tediousness,  and  obscurity. 

In  narration  he  affects  a  disproportionate  pomp  of  diction,  and 
a  wearisome  train  of  circumlocution,  and  tells  the  incident  imper- 
fectly in  many  words,  which  might  have  been  more  plainly  deliv- 
ered in  few.  Narration  in  dramatic  poetry  is  naturally  tedious, 
as  it  is  unanimated  and  inactive,  and  obstructs  the  progress  of 
the  action;  it  should  therefore  always  be  rapid,  and  enlivened  by 
frequent  interruption.  Shakespeare  found  it  an  incumbrance,  and 
instead  of  lightening  it  by  brevity,  endeavored  to  recommend  it 
by  dignity  and  splendor. 

His  declamations  or  set  speeches  are  commonly  cold  and  weak, 
for  his  power  was  the  power  of  nature;  when  he  endeavored,  like 
other  tragic  writers,  to  catch  opportunities  of  amplification,  and 
instead  of  inquiring  what  the  occasion  demanded,  to  show  how 
much  his  stores  of  knowledge  could  supply,  he  seldom  escapes 
without  the  pity  or  resentment  of  his  reader. 

It  is  incident  to  him  to  be  now  and  then  entangled  with  an 
unwieldy    sentiment,  which  he    cannot  well  express,  and  will    not 


2396  SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

reject;  he  struggles  with  it  awhile,  and,  if  it  continues  stubborn, 
comprises  it  in  words  such  as  occur,  and  leaves  it  to  be  disen- 
tangled and  solved  by  those  who  have  more  leisure  to  bestow 
upon  it. 

Not  that  always  where  the  language  is  intricate  the  thought 
is  subtle,  or  the  image  always  great  where  the  line  is  bulky;  the 
equality  of  words  to  things  is  very  often  neglected,  and  trivial 
sentiments  and  vulgar  ideas  disappoint  the  attention,  to  which 
they  are  recommended  by  sonorous  epithets  and  swelling  figures. 

But  the  admirers  of  this  great  poet  have  most  reason  to  complain 
when  he  approaches  nearest  to  his  highest  excellence,  and  seems 
fully  resolved  to  sink  them  in  dejection,  and  mollify  them  with 
tender  emotions  by  the  fall  of  greatness,  the  danger  of  innocence, 
or  the  crosses  of  love.  What  he  does  best,  he  soon  ceases  to  do. 
He  is  not  soft  and  pathetic  without  some  idle  conceit,  or  con- 
temptible equivocation.  He  no  sooner  begins  to  move  than  he 
counteracts  himself;  and  terror  and  pity,  as  they  are  rising  in 
the  mind,  are  checked  and  blasted  by  sudden  frigidity.  A  quib- 
ble is  to  Shakespeare  what  luminous  vapors  are  to  the  traveler; 
he  follows  it  at  all  adventures;  it  is  sure  to  lead  him  out  of 
his  way,  and  sure  to  engulf  him  in  the  mire.  It  has  some  ma- 
lignant power  over  his  mind,  and  its  fascinations  are  irresistible. 
Whatever  be  the  dignity  or  profundity  of  his  disposition,  whether 
he  be  enlarging  knowledge  or  exalting  affection,  whether  he  be 
amusing  attention  with  incidents,  or  enchaining  it  in  suspense, 
let  but  a  quibble  spring  up  before  him,  and  he  leaves  his  work 
unfinished.  A  quibble  is  the  golden  apple  for  which  he  will  al- 
ways turn  aside  from  his  career,  or  stoop  from  his  elevation.  A 
quibble,  poor  and  barren  as  it  is,  gave  him  such  delight  that  he 
was  content  to  purchase  it,  by  the  sacrifice  of  reason,  propriety, 
and  truth.  A  quibble  was  to  him  the  fatal  Cleopatra  for  which 
he  lost  the  world,  and  was  content  to  lose  it. 

It  will  be  thought  strange  that  in  enumerating  the  defects  of 
this  writer,  I  have  not  yet  mentioned  his  neglect  of  the  unities; 
his  violation  of  those  laws  which  have  been  instituted  and  estab- 
lished by  the  joint  authority  of  poets  and  critics. 

For  his  other  deviations  from  the  art  of  writing,  I  resign  him 
to  critical  justice,  without  making  any  other  demand  in  his  favor 
than  that  which  must  be  indulged  to  all  human  excellence:  that 
his  virtues  be  rated  with  his  failings:  but  from  the  censure  which 
this  irregularity  may  bring  upon  him,  I  shall,  with  due  reverence 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON  2397 

to  that  learning  which    I    must  oppose,  adventure   to   try  how   I 
can  defend  him. 

His  histories,  being  neither  tragedies  nor  comedies,  are  not 
subject  to  any  of  their  laws;  nothing  more  is  necessary  to  all 
the  praise  which  they  expect  than  that  the  changes  of  action  be 
so  prepared  as  to  be  understood;  that  the  incidents  be  various 
and  affecting,  and  the  characters  consistent,  natural,  and  distinct. 
No  other  unity  is  intended,  and  therefore    none  is  to   be   sought. 

In  his  other  works  he  has  well  enough  preserved  the  unity  of 
action.  He  has  not,  indeed,  an  intrigue  regularly  perplexed  and 
regularly  unraveled;  he  does  not  endeavor  to  hide  his  design 
only  to  discover  it,  for  this  is  seldom  the  order  of  real  events, 
and  Shakespeare  is  the  poet  of  nature;  but  his  plan  has  com- 
monly, what  Aristotle  requires,  a  beginning,  a  middle,  and  an 
end;  one  event  is  concatenated  with  another,  and  the  conclusion 
follows  by  easy  consequence.  There  are  perhaps  some  incidents 
that  might  be  spared,  as  in  other  poets  there  is  much  talk  that 
only  fills  up  time  upon  the  stage;  but  the  general  system  makes 
gradual  advances,  and  the  end  of  the  play  is  the  end  of  expecta- 
tion. 

To  the  unities  of  time  and  place  he  has  shown  no  regard; 
and  perhaps  a  nearer  view  of  the  principles  on  which  they  stand 
will  diminish  their  value,  and  withdraw  from  them  the  veneration 
which,  from  the  time  of  Corneille,  they  have  very  generally  re- 
ceived, by  discovering  that  they  have  given  more  trouble  to  the 
poet  than  pleasure  to  the  auditor.     .     .     . 

Our  author's  plots  are  generally  borrowed  from  novels;  and 
it  is  reasonable  to  suppose  that  he  chose  the  most  popular,  such 
as  were  read  by  many,  and  related  by  more;  for  his  audience 
could  not  have  followed  him  through  the  intricacies  of  the  drama, 
had  they  not  held  the  thread  of  the  story  in  their  hands. 

The  stories,  which  we  now  find  only  in  remoter  authors,  were 
in  his  time  accessible  and  familiar.  The  fable  of  "  As  You  Like 
It,"  which  is  supposed  to  be  copied  from  Chaucer's  **Gamelyn,** 
was  a  little  pamphlet  of  those  times;  and  old  Mr.  Gibber  remem- 
bered the  tale  of  "  Hamlet  »  in  plain  English  prose,  which  the  crit- 
ics have  now  to  seek  in  Saxo  Grammaticus.  His  English  histories 
he  took  from  English  chronicles  and  English  ballads;  and  as  the 
ancient  writers  were  made  known  to  his  countrymen  by  version, 
they  supplied  him  with  new  objects;  he  dilated  some  of  Plu- 
tarch's "  Lives  "  into  plays,  when  they  had  been  translated  by  North. 


2398  SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

His  plots,  whether  historical  or  fabulous,  are  always  crowded 
with  incidents,  by  which  the  attention  of  a  rude  people  was  more 
easily  caught  than  by  sentiment  or  argumentation;  and  such  is 
the  power  of  the  marvelous,  even  over  those  who  despise  it, 
that  every  man  finds  his  mind  more  strongly  seized  by  the  trage- 
dies of  Shakespeare  than  of  any  other  writer;  others  please  us 
by  particular  speeches,  but  he  always  makes  us  anxious  for  the 
event,  and  has  perhaps  excelled  all  but  Homer  in  securing  the 
first  purpose  of  a  writer,  by  exciting  restless  and  unquenchable 
curiosity,  and  compelling  him  that  reads  his  work  to  read  it 
through. 

The  shows  and  bustle  with  which  his  plays  abound  have  the 
same  original.  As  knowledge  advances,  pleasure  passes  from  the 
eye  to  the  ear,  but  returns,  as  it  declines,  from  the  ear  to  the  eye. 
Those  to  whom  our  author's  labors  were  exhibited  had  more 
skill  in  pomps  or  processions  than  in  poetical  language,  and  per- 
haps wanted  some  visible  and  discriminating  events,  as  comments 
on  the  dialogue.  He  knew  how  he  should  most  please;  and 
whether  his  practice  is  more  agreeable  to  nature,  or  whether  his 
example  has  prejudiced  the  nation,  we  still  find  that  on  our  stage 
something  must  be  done  as  well  as  said,  and  inactive  declama- 
tion is  very  coldly  heard,  however   musical  or  elegant,  passionate 

or  sublime. 

From  the  preface  to  « Shakespeare.* 


PARALLEL  BETWEEN   POPE  AND   DRYDEN 

POPE  professed  to  have  learned  his  poetry  from  Dryden,  whom, 
whenever  an  opportunity  was  presented,  he  praised  through 
his    whole    life    with    unvaried    liberality;    and    perhaps    his 
character  may  receive  some  illustration,  if   he  be  compared  with 
his  master. 

Integrity  of  understanding  and  nicety  of  discernment  were  not 
allotted  in  a  less  proportion  to  Dryden  than  to  Pope.  The  recti- 
tude of  Dryden's  mind  was  sufficiently  shown  by  the  dismission 
of  his  poetical  prejudices,  and  the  rejection  of  unnatural  thoughts 
and  rugged  numbers.  But  Dryden  never  desired  to  apply  all  the 
judgment  that  he  had.  He  wrote,  and  professed  to  write,  merely 
for  the  people ;  and  when  he  pleased  others  he  contented  himself. 
He  spent  no  time  in  struggles  to  rouse  latent   powers;   he  never 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON  2399 

attempted  to  make  that  better  which  was  already  good,  nor  often 
to  mend  what  he  must  have  known  to  be  faulty.  He  wrote,  as 
he  tells  us,  with  very  little  consideration ;  when  occasion  or  neces- 
sity called  upon  him,  he  poured  out  what  the  present  moment 
happened  to  supply,  and,  when  once  it  had  passed  the  press, 
ejected  it  from  his  mind ;  for  when  he  had  no  pecuniary  interest, 
he  had  no  further  solicitude. 

Pope  was  not  content  to  satisfy;  he  desired  to  excel,  and 
therefore  always  endeavored  to  do  his  best:  he  did  not  court  the 
candor,  but  dared  the  judgment  of  his  reader,  and  expecting  no 
indulgence  from  others,  he  showed  none  to  himself.  He  ex- 
amined lines  and  words  with  minute  and  punctilious  observation, 
and  retouched  every  part  with  indefatigable  diligence,  till  he  had 
left  nothing  to  be  forgiven. 

For  this  reason  he  kept  his  pieces  very  long  in  his  hands, 
while  he  considered  and  reconsidered  them.  The  only  poems 
which  can  be  supposed  to  have  been  written  with  such  regard  to 
the  times  as  might  hasten  their  publication,  were  the  two  satires 
of  **  Thirty-eight, "  of  which  Dodsley  told  me  that  they  were 
brought  to  him  by  the  author,  that  they  might  be  fairly  copied. 
** Almost  every  line,**  he  said,  "was  then  written  twice  over;  I 
gave  him  a  clean  transcript,  which  he  sent  sometime  afterwards 
to  me  for  the  press  with  almost  every  line  written  twice  over  a 
second  time.** 

His  declaration  that  his  care  for  his  works  ceased  at  their 
publication  was  not  strictly  true.  His  parental  attention  never 
abandoned  them;  what  he  found  amiss  in  the  first  edition,  he 
silently  corrected  in  those  that  followed.  He  appears  to  have  re- 
vised the  "Iliad,**  and  freed  it  from  some  of  its  imperfections; 
and  the  "  Essay  on  Criticism  **  received  many  improvements  after 
its  first  appearance.  It  will  seldom  be  found  that  he  altered 
without  adding  clearness,  elegance,   or  vigor. 

Pope  had  perhaps  the  judgment  of  Dryden,  but  Dryden  cer- 
tainly wanted  the  diligence  of  Pope. 

In  acquired  knowledge,  the  superiority  must  be  allowed  to 
Dryden,  whose  education  was  more  scholastic,  and  who,  before  he 
became  an  author,  had  been  allowed  more  time  for  study  with 
better  means  of  information.  His  mind  has  a  larger  range,  and 
he  collects  his  images  and  illustrations  from  a  more  extensive 
circumference  of  science.  Dryden  knew  more  of  man  in  his  gen- 
eral nature,  and  Pope  in  his  local  manners.     The  notions  of  Dry- 


2400  SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

den  were  formed  by  comprehensive  speculation,  and  those  of 
Pope  by  minute  attention.  There  is  more  dignity  in  the  knowl- 
edge of  Dryden,  and  more  certainty  in  that  of  Pope. 

Poetry  was  not  the  sole  praise  of  either,  for  both  excelled 
likewise  in  prose;  but  Pope  did  not  borrow  his  prose  from  his 
predecessor.  The  style  of  Dryden  is  capricious  and  varied,  that 
of  Pope  is  cautious  and  uniform.  Dryden  obeys  the  motions  of 
his  own  mind,  Pope  constrains  his  mind  to  his  own  rules  of  com- 
position. Dryden  is  sometimes  vehement  and  rapid,  Pope  is  al- 
ways smooth,  uniform,  and  gentle.  Dryden's  page  is  a  natural 
field,  rising  into  inequalities,  and  diversified  by  the  varied  ex- 
uberance of  abundant  vegetation;  Pope's  is  a  velvet  lawn,  shaven 
by  the  scythe,  and  leveled  by  the  roller. 

Of  genius,  that  power  which  constitutes  a  poet,  that  quality 
without  which  judgment  is  cold  and  knowledge  is  inert,  that  en- 
ergy which  collects,  combines,  amplifies,  and  animates,  the  supe- 
riority must,  with  some  hesitation,  be  allowed  to  Dryden.  It  is 
not  to  be  inferred  that  of  this  poetical  vigor  Pope  had  only  a 
little,  because  Dryden  had  more;  for  every  other  writer  since 
Milton  must  give  place  to  Pope;  and  even  of  Dryden  it  must  be 
said  that  if  he  has  brighter  paragraphs,  he  has  not  better  poems. 
Dryden's  performances  were  always  hasty,  either  excited  by  some 
external  occasion,  or  extorted  by  domestic  necessity;  he  com- 
posed without  consideration,  and  published  without  correction. 
What  his  mind  could  supply  at  call,  or  gather  in  one  excursion, 
was  all  that  he  sought  and  all  that  he  gave.  The  dilatory  cau- 
tion of  Pope  enabled  him  to  condense  his  sentiments,  to  multiply 
his  images,  and  to  accumulate  all  that  study  might  produce  or 
chance  might  supply.  If  the  flights  of  Dryden,  therefore,  are 
higher,  Pope  continues  longer  on  the  wing.  If  of  Dryden's  fire 
the  blaze  is  brighter,  of  Pope's  the  heat  is  more  regular  and 
constant.  Dryden  often  surpasses  expectation,  and  Pope  never 
falls  below  it.  Dryden  is  read  with  frequent  astonishment,  and 
Pope  with  perpetual  delight. 

This  parallel  will,  I  hope,  when  it  is  well  considered,  be  found 
just;  and  if  the  reader  should  suspect  me,  as  I  suspect  myself, 
of  some  partial  fondness  for  the  memory  of  Dryden,  let  him  not 
too  hastily  condemn  me,  for  meditation  and  inquiry  may,  per- 
haps, show  him  the  reasonableness  of  my  determination. 

From  "Lives  of  the  Poets. » 


2401 


BEN  JONSON 

(c.  1573-1637) 

Ien  Jonson's  <<  Discoveries  Made  upon  Men  and  Matter  ^  are 
not  essays  in  the  same  sense  with  Bacon's.  He  is  a  quaint 
and  entertaining  prose  writer,  and  it  frequently  happens 
that  in  rambling  from  subject  to  subject  over  the  wide  range  of 
things  which  interest  him,  he  finds  something  which  results  in  an 
essay  as  complete  in  form  as  could  be  desired.  Quite  frequently, 
however,  he  prefers  to  gossip  pleasantly,  changing  the  subject  as 
soon  as  he  is  tired  of  it,  without  regard  to  whether  he  has  reached 
the  end  of  it  or  not.  In  his  lyric  poems,  he  shows  the  artistic  sense 
which  belonged  to  his  seasons  of  concentrated  effort.  His  ode  to  the 
moon, — 

«  Queen  and  huntress  chaste  and  fair, 
Now  the  sun  is  laid  to  sleep,  *> 

is  scarcely  surpassed  in  its  art  by  any  other  lyric  in  the  language, 
and  it  represents  him  well  on  the  too  infrequent  occasions  when  he 
subjected  himself  to  the  strain  of  doing   his  best. 

He  was  born  at  Westminster,  England,  about  the  year  1573.  from 
obscure  parentage.  His  stepfather  was  a  bricklayer,  but  he  was  sent 
to  school  first  to  St.  Martins-in-the-Fields,  and  afterwards  to  West- 
minster. In  1597  he  is  found  working  in  London  as  a  player  and 
writer  of  plays.  In  1598  his  "Every  Man  in  His  Humor>>  was  put  on 
the  stage  at  the  Globe  Theatre,  and  it  is  said  that  Shakespeare  ap- 
peared as  one  of  the  actors  in  it.  Jonson  was  popular  as  a  play- 
wright, and  so  great  a  favorite  at  court  that  he  had  a  pension  of  /200 
a  year.  He  knew  and  valued  Shakespeare,  but,  as  one  of  the  passages 
in  his  "Discoveries'*  shows,  his  admiration  was  not  undiscriminating. 
In  1637.  when  Jonson  died,  the  court  was  engaged  in  preparing  for  the 
life-and-death  struggle  which  was  to  come  with  Cromwell's  Ironsides. 
The  poet  was  forgotten  after  his  burial  in  Westminster  Abbey,  until 
one  of  his  admirers,  Sir  John  Young,  caused  to  be  cut  upon  the  tomb 
the  celebrated  epitaph,  "O  Rare  Ben  Jonson." 
VI — 151 


2402  BEN  JONSON 


ON   SHAKESPEARE  — ON   THE   DIFFERENCE   OF   WITS 

I  REMEMBER  the  players  have  often  mentioned    it   as  an  honor  to 
Shakespeare,  that    in   his   writing,  whatsoever  he  penned,   he 

never  blotted  out  a  line.  My  answer  hath  been,  ^<  Would  he 
had  blotted  a  thousand, '^  which  they  thought  a  malevolent  speech. 
I  had  not  told  posterity  this,  but  for  their  ignorance  who  chose 
that  circumstance  to  commend  their  friend  by  wherein  he  most 
faulted;  and  to  justify  mine  own  candor,  for  I  loved  the  man, 
and  do  honor  his  memory  on  this  side  idolatry  as  much  as  any. 
He  was,  indeed,  honest,  and  of  an  open  and  free  nature;  had  an 
excellent  phantasy,  brave  notions,  and  gentle  expressions,  wherein 
he  flowed  with  that  facility,  that  sometimes  it  was  necessary  he 
should  be  stopped.  Sufflaniinandus  erat,  as  Augustus  said  of  Ha- 
terius.  His  wit  was  in  his  own  power:  would  the  rule  of  it  had 
been  so  too.  Many  times  he  fell  into  those  things  which  could  not 
escape  laughter,  as  when  he  said  in  the  person  of  Caesar,  one  speak- 
ing to  him,  "Caesar,  thou  dost  me  wrong. '^  He  replied,  "Caesar 
did  never  wrong  but  with  just  cause  '^ ;  and  such  like,  which  were 
ridiculous.  But  he  redeemed  his  vices  with  his  virtues.  There 
was  ever  more  in  him  to  be  praised  than  to  be  pardoned. 

In  the  difference  of  wits  I  have  observed  there  are  many 
notes;  and  it  is  a  little  maistry  to  know  them,  to  discern  what 
every  nature,  every  disposition  will  bear;  for  before  we  sow  our 
land  we  should  plough  it.  There  are  no  fewer  forms  of  minds 
than  of  bodies  amongst  us.  The  variety  is  incredible,  and  there- 
fore we  must  search.  Some  are  fit  to  make  divines,  some  poets, 
some  lawyers,  some  physicians,  some  to  be  sent  to  the  plow, 
and  trades. 

There  is  no  doctrine  will  do  good  where  nature  is  wanting. 
Some  wits  are  swelling  and  high;  others  low  and  still;  some  hot 
and  fiery;  others  cold  and  dull;  one  must  have  a  bridle,  the  other 
a  spur. 

There  be  some  that  are  forward  and  bold;  and  these  will  do 
every  little  thing  easily.  I  mean  that  is  hard  by  and  next  them, 
which  they  will  utter  unretarded  without  any  shamefacedness. 
These  never  perform  much,  but  quickly.  They  are  what  they 
are  on  the  sudden;  they  show  presently  like  grain  that,  scattered 
on  the  top  of  the  ground,  shoots  up,  but  takes  no  root;  has  a 
yellow  blade,  but  the  ear  empty.     They  are  wits  of  good  promise 


BEN  JONSON  2403 

at  first,  but  there  is  an  ingenistitium;  they  stand  still  at  sixteen, 
they  get  no  higher. 

You  have  others  that  labor  only  to  ostentation;  and  are  ever 
more  busy  about  the  colors  and  surface  of  a  work  than  in  the 
matter  and  foundation,   for  that  is  hid,  the  other  is  seen. 

Others  that  in  composition  are  nothing  but  what  is  rough  and 
broken.  Qucb  per  salebras^  altaque  sax  a  cadunt.  And  if  it  would 
come  gently,  they  trouble  it  of  purpose.  They  would  not  have 
it  run  without  rubs,  as  if  that  style  were  more  strong  and  manly 
that  struck  the  ear  with  a  kind  of  unevenness.  These  men  err 
not  by  chance,  but  knowingly  and  willingly;  they  are  like  men 
that  affect  a  fashion  by  themselves;  have  some  singularity  in  a 
ruff,  cloak,  or  hatband;  or  their  beards  specially  cut  to  provoke 
beholders,  and  set  a  mark  upon  themselves.  They  would  be 
reprehended  while  they  are  looked  on.  And  this  vice,  one  that 
is  authority  with  the  rest,  loving,  delivers  over  to  them  to  be 
imitated;  so  that  ofttimes  the  faults  which  he  fell  into,  the  others 
seek  for.      This  is  the  danger,  when  vice  becomes  a  precedent. 

Others  there  are  that  have  no  composition  at  all;  but  a  kind 
of  tuning  and  rhyming  fall  in  what  they  write.  It  runs  and 
slides,  and  only  makes  a  sound.  "Women's  poets  they  are  called, 
as  you  have  women's  tailors. 

<'They  write  a  verse  as  smooth,   as  soft  as   cream, 
In  which  there  is  no  torrent,   nor  scarce  stream." 

You  may  sound  these  wits  and  find  the  depth  of  them  with 
your  middle   finger.      They   are   cream-bowl,   or  but  puddle-deep. 

Some  that  turn  over  all  books,  and  are  equally  searching  in 
all  papers;  that  write  out  of  what  they  presently  find  or  meet, 
without  choice.  By  which  means  it  happens  that  what  they  have 
discredited  and  impugned  in  one  week,  they  have  before  or  after 
extolled  the  same  in  another.  Such  are  all  the  essayists,  even 
their  master  Montaigne.  These,  in  all  they  write,  confess  still 
what  books  they  have  read  last,  and  therein  their  own  folly  so 
much  that  they  bring  it  to  the  stake  raw  and  undigested;  not 
that  the  place  did  need  it  neither,  but  that  they  thought  them- 
selves furnished  and  would  vent  it. 

Some  again  who,  after  they  have  got  authority,  or,  which  is 
less,  opinion,  by  their  writings,  to  have  read  much,  dare  pres- 
ently to  feign  whole  books  and  authors,  and  lie  safely.  For  what 
never  was  will  not  easnly  be  found,  not  by  the  most  curious. 


2404  BEN  JONSON 

And  some,  by  a  cunning  protestation  against  all  reading,  and 
false  venditation  of  their  own  naturals,  think  to  divert  the  sa- 
gacity of  their  readers  from  themselves,  and  cool  the  scent  of 
their  own  fox-like  thefts;  when  yet  they  are  so  rank,  as  a  man 
may  find  whole  pages  together  usurped  from  one  author;  their 
necessities  compelling  them  to  read  for  present  use,  which  could 
not  be  in  many  books;  and  so  come  forth  more  ridiculously  and 
palpably  guilty  than  those  who,  because  they  cannot  trace,  they 
yet  would  slander  their  industry. 

But  the  wretcheder  are  the  obstinate  contemners  of  all  helps 
and  arts;  such  as  presuming  on  their  own  naturals  (which,  per- 
haps, are  excellent),  dare  deride  all  diligence,  and  seem  to  mock 
at  the  terms  when  they  understand  not  the  things;  thinking  that 
way  to  get  ofE  wittily  with  their  ignorance.  These  are  imitated 
often  by  such  as  are  their  peers  in  negligence,  though  they  can- 
not be  in  nature;  and  they  utter  all  they  can  think  with  a  kind 
of  violence  and  indisposition,  unexamined,  without  relation  either 
to  person,  place,  or  any  fitness  else;  and  the  more  willful  and 
stubborn  they  are  in  it  the  more  learned  they  are  esteemed  of 
the  multitude,  through  their  excellent  vice  of  judgment,  who 
think  those  things  the  stronger  that  have  no  art;  as  if  to  break 
were  better   than    to   open,  or   to  rend    asunder   gentler   than   to 

loose. 

It  cannot  but  come  to  pass  that  these  men  who  commonly 
seek  to  do  more  than  enough  may  sometimes  happen  on  some- 
thing that  is  good  and  great;  but  very  seldom:  and  when  it  comes 
it  doth  not  recompense  the  rest  of  their  ill.  For  their  jests,  and 
their  sentences  (which  they  only  and  ambitiously  seek  for)  stick 
out  and  are  more  eminent  because  all  is  sordid  and  vile  about 
them;  as  lights  are  more  discerned  in  a  thick  darkness  than  a 
faint  shadow.  Now,  because  they  speak  all  they  can  (however 
unfitly),  they  are  thought  to  have  the  greater  copy;  where  the 
learned  use  ever  election  and  a  mean,  they  look  back  to  what 
they  intended  at  first,  and  make  all  an  even  and  proportioned 
body.  The  true  artificer  will  not  run  away  from  Nature  as  he 
were  afraid  of  her,  or  depart  from  life  and  the  likeness  of  truth, 
but  speak  to  the  capacity  of  his  hearers.  And  though  his  lan- 
guage differ  from  the  vulgar  somewhat,  it  shall  not  fly  from  all 
humanity,  with  the  Tamerlanes  and  Tamer-chams  of  the  late  age, 
which  had  nothing  in  them  but  the  scenical  strutting  and  furious 
vociferation  to  warrant   them  to  the  ignorant  gapers.     He  knows 


BEN   JONSON  2405 

it  is  his  only  art  so  to  carry  it  as  none  but  artificers  perceive  it. 
In  the  meantime,  perhaps,  he  is  called  barren,  dull,  lean,  a  poor 
writer,  or  by  what  contumelious  word  can  come  in  their  cheeks, 
by  these  men  who,  without  labor,  judgment,  knowledge,  or  almost 
sense,  are  received  or  preferred  before  him.  He  gratulates  them 
and  their  fortune.  Another  age,  or  juster  men,  will  acknowledge 
the  virtues  of  his  studies,  his  wisdom  in  dividing,  his  subtlety  in 
-rguing,  with  what  strength  he  doth  inspire  his  readers,  with 
what  sweetness  he  strokes  them;  in  inveighing,  what  sharpness; 
in  jest,  what  urbanity  he  uses;  how  he  doth  reign  in  men's  affec- 
tions; how  invade  and  break  in  upon  them,  and  makes  their 
minds  like  the  thing  he  writes.  Then  in  his  elocution  to  behold 
what  word  is  proper,  which  hath  ornaments,  which  height,  what 
is  beautifully  translated,  where  figures  are  fit,  which  gentle,  which 
strong,  to  show  the  composition  manly;  and  how  he  hath  avoided 
faint,  obscure,  obscene,  sordid,  humble,  improper,  or  effeminate 
phrase;  which  is  not  only  praised  of  the  most,  but  commended 
(which  is  worse),  especially  for  that  it  is  naught. 

Complete.     From  <' Timber;  or,  Discoveries 
Made  upon  Men  and  Matter. » 


ON   MALIGNANCY    IN    STUDIES 

THERE  be  some  men  are  born  only  to  suck  out  the  poison  of 
books:  Habcnt  venemnn  pro  victu;  into,  pro  deliciis.  And 
such  are  they  that  only  relish  the  obscene  and  foul  things 
in  poets;  which  makes  the  profession  taxed.  But  by  whom  ?  Men 
that  watch  for  it;  and  (had  they  not  had  this  hint)  are  so  unjust 
valuers  of  letters,  as  they  think  no  learning  good  but  what  brings 
in  gain.  It  shows  they  themselves  would  never  have  been  of  the 
professions  they  arc,  but  for  the  profits  and  fees.  But  if  another 
learning  well  I'.sed  can  instruct  to  good  life,  inform  manners,  no 
less  persuade  and  lead  men,  than  they  threaten  and  compel, 
and  have  no  reward :  is  it  therefore  the  worse  study  ?  I  could 
never  think  the  study  of  wisdom  confined  only  to  the  philoso- 
pher; or  of  piety  to  the  divine;  or  of  state  to  the  politic:  but 
that  he  which  can  feign  a  commonwealth  (which  is  the  poet)  can 
govern  it  with  counsels,  strengthen  it  with  laws,  correct  it  with 
judgments,  inform  it  with  religion  and  morals  is  all   these.      We 


2406  BEN  JONSON 

do  not  require  in  him  mere  elocution,  or  an  excellent  faculty  in 
verse,  but  the  exact  knowledge  of  all  virtues,  and  their  contraries, 
with  ability  to  render  the  one  loved,  the  other  hated,  by  his  pro- 
per embattling  them.  The  philosophers  did  insolently,  to  chal- 
lenge only  to  themselves  that  which  the  greatest  generals  and 
gravest  counselors  never  durst.  For  such  had  rather  do,  than 
promise  the  best  things. 

Complete.     From  « Timber;  or,  Discoveries 
Made  upon  Men  and  Matter. » 


OF   GOOD   AND   EVIL 

A  GOOD  man  will  avoid  the  spot  of  any  sin.  The  very  asper- 
sion is  grievous;  which  makes  him  choose  his  way  in  his 
life  as  he  would  in  his  journey.  The  ill  man  rides  through 
all  confidently;  he  is  coated  and  booted  for  it.  The  oftener  he 
offends,  the  more  openly;  and  the  fouler,  the  fitter  in  fashion. 
His  modesty,  like  a  riding  coat,  the  more  it  is  worn,  is  the  less 
cared  for.  It  is  good  enough  for  the  dirt  still,  and  the  ways  he 
travels  in.  An  innocent  man  needs  no  eloquence;  his  innocence 
is  instead  of  it;  else  I  had  never  come  off  so  many  times  from 
these  precipices,  whither  men's  malice  hath  pursued  me.  It  is 
true,  I  have  been  accused  to  the  lords,  to  the  king,  and  by  great 
ones:  but  it  happened  my  accusers  had  not  thought  of  the  accu- 
sation with  themselves;  and  so  were  driven,  for  want  of  crimes, 
to  use  invention,  which  was  found  slander:  or  too  late  (being  en- 
tered so  far)  to  seek  starting  holes  for  their  rashness,  which  were 
not  given  them.  And  then  they  may  think  what  accusation  that 
was  like  to  prove,  when  they  that  were  the  engineers  feared  to 
be  the  authors.  Nor  were  they  content  to  feign  things  against 
me,  but  to  urge  things  feigned  by  the  ignorant  against  my  pro- 
fession; which  though,  from  their  hired  and  mercenary  impu- 
dence, I  might  have  passed  by,  as  granted  to  a  nation  of  barkers, 
that  let  out  their  tongues  to  lick  others'  sores,  yet  I  durst  not 
leave  myself  undefended,  having  a  pair  of  ears  unskillful  to  hear 
lies,  or  have  those  things  said  of  me,  which  I  could  truly  prove 
of  them.  They  objected  making  of  verses  to  me,  when  I  could 
object  to  most  of  them,  their  not  being  able  to  read  them,  but  as 
worthy  of  scorn.  Nay,  they  would  offer  to  urge  mine  own  writ- 
ings against  me,  but   by  pieces  (which  was   an   excellent  way  of 


BEN   JONSON  2407 

malice) :  as  if  any  man's  context  might  not  seem  dangerous  and 
offensive,  if  that  which  was  knit  to  what  went  before  were  de- 
frauded of  his  beginning;  or  that  things  by  themselves  uttered 
might  not  seem  subject  to  calumny,  which,  read  entire,  would  ap- 
pear most  free.  At  last  they  upbraided  my  poverty:  I  confess 
she  is  my  domestic;  sober  of  diet,  simple  of  habit,  frugal,  painful, 
a  good  counselor  to  me,  that  keeps  me  from  cruelty,  pride,  or 
other  more  delicate  impertinences,  which  are  the  nurse  children 
of  riches.  But  let  them  look  over  all  the  great  and  monstrous 
wickednesses,  they  shall  never  find  those  in  poor  families.  They 
are  the  issue  of  the  wealthy  giants,  and  the  mighty  hunters: 
whereas  no  great  work,  worthy  of  praise  or  memory,  but  came 
out  of  poor  cradles.  It  was  the  ancient  poverty  that  founded 
commonweals,  built  cities,  invented  arts,  made  wholesome  laws, 
armed  men  against  vices,  rewarded  them  with  their  own  virtues, 
and  preserved  the  honor  and  state  of  nations,  till  they  betrayed 
themselves  to  riches. 

Complete.     From  «  Timber ;  or,  Discoveries 
Made  upon  Mao  and  Matter. » 


2408 


« JUNIUS* 

Sir  Philip  Francis  (?) 

(1740-1818) 

jMONG  the  letters  of  «  Junius," — each  a  masterpiece  of  vitupera- 
tion,—  that  of  July  8th,  1769,  to  the  Duke  of  Grafton  is  un- 
approachable.     It  is  as  hard  to  read  it  without  feeling  that 
its  victim  must  have  deserved    it  as  it  is  to  escape  regret  at  the  ne- 
cessity of   even   suspecting   the    depths   of  infamy  possible   for   those 
who  aspire   to  control   others  by  force   and   fraud.     Of   all  who  have 
studied  politics   since  Machiavelli    showed   scoundrels  how  to  make  a 
public   policy    of   their   worst    villainy,    Junius    alone   has    adequately 
expressed  the  indignant  contempt  every  honest  man  who  knows  such 
politics  must  feel  for  such  politicians.     Swift,  who  approaches  Junius 
in   knowledge   of  the   subject,  broke   his  heart   and    died,  wrecked   in 
mind  and   body,  by  the  « cruel  indignation  '>  which  alone  could   have 
endowed  the  author  of  the  «  Junius  »  letters  with  the  transcendent  abil- 
ity he  displays  in  attacking  the  great  criminals  of  the  commercial  and 
political   combination   which   was   then   using   the   power   of   the   op- 
pressed  English   people   to  rob   the    people   of   India.     To   appreciate 
the  full  significance  of   the  domestic  politics  which  provoked  the  let- 
ters of  « Junius, »  the  reader  who  has  the  letter  to  the  Duke  of  Grafton 
fresh    in    mind,   must    take    up   Burke's   speech    opening    the   bribery 
charges  against   Hastings   and  read  on  until   he  has  learned  how  the 
imposts  laid  on  Hindoo  farmers  by  the  allies  and  agents  of  the  Brit- 
ish East  India  Company  were  collected  by  the  use  of  torture.      If,  as 
Macaulay  supposes.  Sir  Philip  Francis  wrote  the  letters  of  « Junius, »  he 
had  ample  opportunity  to  realize  abroad   the  meaning  of  the  corrup- 
tion he   had   denounced   at  home,  for  he  was   in   India  from  1774  to 
1780  as  a  member  of  the   council   appointed  to  check   Hastings.     He 
was  born  at  Dublin,  October  22d,  1740,  his  father.  Rev.  Philip  Francis, 
being  the  author  of  a  celebrated  translation  of  Horace  which,  in  spite 
of  some  pardonable  pedantry,  remains  still   the  English   masterpiece 
of  its  class.     With  this  family  tradition  of  ability,  the  younger  Francis 
developed  in  his   own   right,  talent  of   a  high   order.     From   being  a 
junior  clerk  in  the  office  of  the  Secretary  of  State  in  1756,  he  rose  in 
1774   to   be   one  of   the   Council   for   India.     On   his  return   from   the 
East,  he  was   elected   to   Parliament  (1784)  where,  as  in  his  writings, 


«  JUNIUS  »  3409 

he  showed  himself  a  formidable  opponent  of  those  he  considered  op- 
ponents of  justice  and  progress.  He  died  December  23d.  1818.  The 
argument  for  his  authorship  of  "^  Junius »  has  been  repeatedly  made 
and  often  controverted.  Macaulay's  statement  of  the  evidence  in 
his  essay  on  Warren  Hastings  is  an  interesting  one  and  as  nearly 
convincing,  no  doubt,  as  can  be  made  where  the  evidence  is  wholly 
circumstantial. 

W.  V.  B. 


TO   THE  DUKE   OF  GRAFTON 

July  8th,   1769. 
My  Lord:  — 

IF  NATURE  had  given  you  an  understanding  qualified  to  keep 
pace  with  the  wishes  and  principles  of  your  heart,  she  would 
have  made  you  perhaps  the  most  formidable  minister  that 
ever  was  employed  under  a  limited  monarch  to  accomplish  the 
ruin  of  a  free  people.  When  neither  the  feelings  of  shame,  the 
reproaches  of  conscience,  nor  the  dread  of  punishment,  form  any 
bar  to  the  designs  of  a  minister,  the  people  would  have  too 
much  reason  to  lament  their  condition  if  they  did  not  find  some 
resource  in  the  weakness  of  his  understanding.  We  owe  it  to 
the  bounty  of  Providence,  that  the  completest  depravity  of  the 
heart  is  sometimes  strangely  united  with  a  confusion  of  the 
mind  which  counteracts  the  most  favorite  principles,  and  makes 
the  same  man  treacherous  without  art  and  a  hypocrite  without 
deceiving.  The  measures,  for  instance,  in  which  your  Grace's  ac- 
tivity has  been  chiefly  exerted,  as  they  were  adopted  without 
skill,  should  have  been  conducted  with  more  than  common  dex- 
terity. But  truly,  my  lord,  the  execution  has  been  as  gross  as 
the  design.  By  one  decisive  step  you  have  defeated  all  the  arts 
of  writing.  You  have  fairly  confounded  the  intrigues  of  opposi- 
tion and  silenced  the  clamor  of  faction.  A  dark,  ambiguous 
system  might  require  and  furnish  the  materials  of  ingenious  illus- 
tration; and,  in  doubtful  measures,  the  virulent  exaggeration  of 
party  must  be  employed  to  rouse  and  engage  the  passions  of  the 
people.  You  have  now  brought  the  merits  of  your  administra- 
tion to  an  issue  on  which  every  Englishman  of  the  narrowest 
capacity  may  determine  for  himself.  It  is  not  an  alarm  to  the  pas- 
sions, but  a  calm  appeal  to  the  judgment  of  the  people  upon  their 
own  most  essential  interests.    A  more  experienced  minister  would 


24IO  «JUNIUS» 

not  have  hazarded  a  direct  invasion  of  the  first  principles  of  the 
constitution  before  he  had  made  some  progress  in  subduing  the 
spirit  of  the  people.  With  such  a  cause  as  yours,  my  lord,  it  is 
not  sufficient  that  you  have  the  court  at  your  devotion,  unless 
you  can  find  means  to  corrupt  or  intimidate  the  jury.  The  col- 
lective body  of  the  people  form  that  jury,  and  from  their  deci- 
sion there  is  but  one  appeal. 

Whether  you  have  talents  to  support  you  at  a  crisis  of  such 
difficulty  and  danger  should  long  since  have  been  considered. 
Judging  truly  of  your  disposition,  you  have  perhaps  mistaken  the 
extent  of  your  capacity.  Good  faith  and  folly  have  so  long  been 
received  as  synonymous  terms  that  the  reverse  of  the  proposition 
has  grown  into  credit,  and  every  villain  fancies  himself  a  man 
of  abilities.  It  is  the  apprehension  of  your  friends,  my  lord, 
that  you  have  drawn  some  hasty  conclusion  of  this  sort,  and  that 
a  partial  reliance  upon  your  moral  character  has  betrayed  you 
beyond  the  depth  of  your  imderstanding.  You  have  now  carried 
things  too  far  to  retreat.  You  have  plainly  declared  to  the  peo- 
ple what  they  are  to  expect  from  the  continuance  of  your  ad- 
ministration. It  is  time  for  your  grace  to  consider  what  you 
also  may  expect  in  return  from  their  spirit  and  their  resentment. 

Since  the  accession  of  our  most  gracious  sovereign  to  the 
throne,  we  have  seen  a  system  of  government  which  may  well  be 
called  a  reign  of  experiments.  Parties  of  all  denominations  have 
been  employed  and  dismissed.  The  advice  of  the  ablest  men  in 
this  country  has  been  repeatedly  called  for  and  rejected;  and 
when  the  royal  displeasure  has  been  signified  to  a  minister,  the 
marks  of  it  have  usually  been  proportioned  to  his  abilities  and 
integrity.  The  spirit  of  the  favorite  had  some  apparent  influence 
upon  every  administration;  and  every  set  of  ministers  preserved 
an  appearance  of  duration  as  long  as  they  submitted  to  that  in- 
fluence. But  there  were  certain  services  to  be  performed  for  the 
favorite's  security,  or  to  gratify  his  resentments,  which  your  prede- 
cessors in  office  had  the  wisdom  or  the  virtue  not  to  undertake. 
The  moment  this  refractory  spirit  was  discovered,  their  disgrace 
was  determined.  Lord  Chatham,  Mr.  Grenville,  and  Lord  Rock- 
ingham have  successively  had  the  honor  to  be  dismissed  for  pre- 
ferring their  duty  as  servants  of  the  public  to  those  compliances 
which  were  expected  from  their  station.  A  submissive  adminis- 
tration was  at  last  gradually  collected  from  the  deserters  of  all 
parties,  interests,  and  connections;    and  nothing  remained  but  to 


OJUNIUSW  241 1 

find  a  leader  for  these  gallant,  well-disciplined  troops.  Stand 
forth,  my  lord;  for  thou  art  the  man.  Lord  Bute  found  no  re- 
source of  dependence  or  security  in  the  proud,  imposing  superior- 
ity of  Lord  Chatham's  abilities,  the  shrewd,  inflexible  judgment 
of  Mr.  Grenville,  nor  in  the  mild  but  determined  integrity  of 
Lord  Rockingham.  His  views  and  situation  required  a  creature 
void  of  all  these  properties;  and  he  was  forced  to  go  through 
every  division,  resolution,  composition,  and  refinement  of  political 
chemistry  before  he  happily  arrived  at  the  caput  mortnuni  of  vit- 
riol in  your  grace.  Flat  and  insipid  in  your  retired  state;  but, 
brought  into  action,  you  become  vitriol  again.  Such  are  the  ex- 
tremes of  alternate  indolence  or  fury  which  governed  your  whole 
administration.  Your  circumstances  with  regard  to  the  people 
soon  becoming  desperate,  like  other  honest  servants,  you  deter- 
mined to  involve  the  best  of  masters  in  the  same  difficulties  with 
yourself.  We  owe  it  to  your  grace's  well-directed  labors  that 
your  sovereign  has  been  persuaded  to  doubt  of  the  affections  of 
his  subjects,  and  the  people  to  suspect  the  virtues  of  their  sov- 
ereign at  a  time  when  both  were  unquestionable.  You  have  de- 
graded the  royal  dignity  into  a  base,  dishonorable  competition 
with  Mr.  Wilkes;  nor  had  you  abilities  to  carry  even  this  last 
contemptible  triumph  over  a  private  man  without  the  grossest 
violation  of  the  fundamental  laws  of  the  constitution  and  rights 
of  the  people.  But  these  are  rights,  my  lord,  which  you  can  no 
more  annihilate  than  you  can  the  soil  to  which  they  are  annexed. 
The  question  no  longer  turns  upon  points  of  national  honor  and 
security  abroad,  or  on  the  degrees  of  expedience  and  propriety 
of  measures  at  home.  It  was  not  inconsistent  that  you  should 
abandon  the  cause  of  liberty  in  another  country,  which  you  had 
persecuted  in  your  own;  and,  in  the  common  arts  of  domestic 
corruption,  we  miss  no  part  of  Sir  Robert  Walpolc's  system  ex- 
cept his  abilities.  In  this  humble  imitative  line  you  might  long 
have  proceeded  safe  and  contemptible.  You  might  probably 
never  have  risen  to  the  dignity  of  being  hated,  and  even  have 
been  despised  with  moderation.  But  it  seems  you  meant  to  be 
distinguished;  and  to  a  mind  like  yours  there  was  no  other  road 
to  fame  but  by  the  destruction  of  a  noble  fabric,  which  you 
thought  had  been  too  long  the  admiration  of  mankind.  The  use 
you  have  made  of  the  military  force  introduced  an  alarming 
change  in  the  mode  of  executing  the  laws.  The  arbitrary  ap- 
pointment  of    Mr.   Luttrell    invades    the    foundation    of    the    laws 


2412  « JUNIUS » 

themselves,  as  it  manifestly  transfers  the  right  of  legislation 
from  those  whom  the  people  have  chosen  to  those  whom  they 
have  rejected.  With  a  succession  of  such  appointments  we  may 
soon  see  a  House  of  Commons  collected,  in  the  choice  of  which 
the  other  towns  and  counties  of  England  will  have  as  little  share 
as  the  devoted  county  of  Middlesex. 

Yet  I  trust  your  grace  will  find  that  the  people  of  this  coun- 
try are  neither  to  be  intimidated  by  violent  measures  nor  de- 
ceived by  refinements.  When  they  see  Mr.  Luttrell  seated  in  the 
House  of  Commons  by  mere  dint  of  power,  and  in  direct  oppo- 
sition to  the  choice  of  a  whole  county,  they  will  not  listen  to 
those  subtleties  by  which  every  arbitrary  exertion  of  authority  is 
explained  into  the  law  and  privilege  of  parliament.  It  requires 
no  persuasion  of  argument,  but  simply  the  evidence  of  the  senses 
to  convince  them  that  to  transfer  the  right  of  election  from  the 
collective  to  the  representative  body  of  the  people  contradicts  all 
those  ideas  of  a  House  of  Commons  which  they  have  received 
from  their  forefathers,  and  which  they  have  already,  though  vainly 
perhaps,  delivered  to  their  children.  The  principles  on  which 
this  violent  measure  has  been  defended  have  added  scorn  to  in- 
jury, and  forced  us  to  feel  that  we  are  not  only  oppressed,  but 
insulted. 

With  what  force,  my  lord,  with  what  protection  are  you  pre- 
pared to  meet  the  united  detestation  of  the  people  of  England  ? 
The  city  of  London  has  given  a  generous  example  to  the  king- 
dom in  what  manner  a  king  of  this  country  ought  to  be  ad- 
dressed; and  I  fancy,  my  lord,  it  is  not  yet  in  your  courage  to 
stand  between  your  sovereign  and  the  addressed  of  his  subjects. 
The  injuries  you  have  done  this  country  are  such  as  demand  not 
only  redress,  but  vengeance.  In  vain  shall  you  look  for  protec- 
tion to  that  venal  vote  which  you  have  already  paid  for:  another 
must  be  purchased;  and,  to  save  a  minister,  the  House  of  Com- 
mons must  declare  themselves  not  only  independent  of  their  con- 
stituents, but  the  determined  enemies  of  the  constitution.  Consider, 
my  lord,  whether  this  be  an  extremity  to  which  their  fears  will 
permit  them  to  advance;  or,  if  their  protection  should  fail  you, 
how  far  you  are  authorized  to  rely  upon  the  sincerity  of  those 
smiles  which  a  pious  court  lavishes  without  reluctance  upon  a 
libertine  by  profession.  It  is  not,  indeed,  the  least  of  the  thou- 
sand contradictions  which  attend  you,  that  a  man  marked  to  the 
world   by    the    grossest    violation   of    all    ceremony    and    decorum 


« JUNIUS©  2413 

should  be  the  first  servant  of  a  court  in  which  prayers  are  moral- 
ity, and  kneeling  is  religion. 

Trust  not  too  far  to  appearances,  by  which  your  predecessors 
have  been  deceived,  though  they  have  not  been  injured.  Even 
the  best  of  princes  may  at  last  discover  that  this  is  a  conten- 
tion in  which  everything  may  be  lost,  but  nothing  can  be  gained ; 
and  as  you  became  minister  by  accident,  were  adopted  with- 
out choice,  trusted  without  confidence,  and  continued  without 
favor,  be  assured  that  whenever  an  occasion  presses  you  will  be 
discarded  without  even  the  forms  of  regret.  You  will  then  have 
reason  to  be  thankful  if  you  are  permitted  to  retire  to  that  seat 
of  learning  which  in  contemplation  of  the  system  of  your  life, 
the  comparative  purity  of  your  manners,  with  those  of  their  high- 
steward,  and  a  thousand  other  recommending  circumstances,  has 
chosen  you  to  encourage  the  growing  virtue  of  their  youth,  and 
to  preside  over  their  education.  Whenever  the  spirit  of  distrib- 
uting prebends  and  bishoprics  shall  have  departed  from  you,  you 
will  find  that  learned  seminary  perfectly  recovered  from  the  de- 
lirium of  an  installation,  and,  what  in  truth  it  ought  to  be,  once 
more  a  peaceful  scene  of  slumber  and  thoughtless  meditation. 
The  venerable  tutors  of  the  university  will  no  longer  distress 
your  modesty  by  proposing  you  for  a  pattern  to  their  pupils. 
The  learned  dullness  of  declamation  will  be  silent;  and  even  the 
venal  muse,  though  happiest  in  fiction,  will  forget  your  virtues. 
Yet  for  the  benefit  of  the  succeeding  age  I  could  wish  that  your 
retreat  might  be  deferred  until  your  morals  shall  happily  be 
ripened  to  that  maturity  of  corruption  at  which  the  worst  ex- 
amples cease  to  be  contagious. 

Complete.     From  Woodfall's  « Junius. » 


2414 


IMMANUEL   KANT 

(1724- 1 804) 

[n  the  <<  Canon  of  Pure  Reason^*  as  in  the  entire  <^ Critique,* 
of  which  it  is  a  part,  Kant  attempts  to  define  the  laws  of 
the  mind's  operation.  As  his  style  is  obscure  and  his  rea- 
soning abstruse,  the  practical  usefulness  of  his  work  is  sometimes 
questioned.  When,  however,  we  get  beyond  metaphysics  to  the  com- 
mon problems  of  life  and  of  the  experimental  science  which  aims  at 
efficiency,  we  can  see  that  if  the  **  Canon  of  Reason  *^  were  really 
ascertained  and  clearly  defined,  it  would  be  of  the  greatest  possible 
advantage.  If,  for  example,  the  mind  operates  now  as  it  did  at  the 
origin  of  language,  then  we  have  only  our  own  lack  of  intellectual 
activity  to  blame  that  there  is  not  a  true  "  science  of  language.  **  So 
of  <<  anthropology  ^'  in  all  its  phases;  so  of  the  higher  science  of  civi- 
lization which  so  many  great  minds  have  attempted  to  create.  In 
the  conclusion  of  the  **  Canon  of  Reason,  *  Kant  repudiates  the  idea  that 
he  is  attempting  to  transcend  what  may  be  understood  as  a  result  of 
the  general  experience.  "  Nature,  *  he  says,  <^  in  respect  of  that  which 
affects  all  men  without  distinction,  has  not  to  be  charged  with  any 
partial  distribution  of  its  gifts;  .  .  .  the  highest  philosophy  in  re- 
spect of  the  essential  ends  of  human  nature  cannot  advance  any 
further  than  the  guide  which  nature  likewise  conferred  upon  the 
most  common  understanding.^^ 

Kant  was  born  at  Konigsberg,  Prussia,  April  22d,  1724.  His 
father  was  a  saddler  of  limited  means,  who  managed,  nevertheless,  to 
secure  him  early  educational  advantages,  which  enabled  him  to  enter 
the  university  and  take  his  degree.  He  had  supported  himself  mean- 
while by  work  as  a  tutor,  and  a  year  after  his  graduation  he  secured 
employment  in  the  royal  library  at  Konigsberg.  Four  years  later  he 
became  professor  of  Logic  and  Metaphysics  in  Konigsberg  University, 
a  position  he  held  until  his  death  February  12th,  1804.  His  career 
was  thus  identified  with  his  native  city,  and  it  is  said  that  he  was 
never  more  than  thirty  miles  away  from  it  in  his  life.  The  "  Critique 
of  Pure  Reason^*  (Kritik  der  Reinen  Vernunft),  his  greatest  philo- 
sophical work,  appeared  in  1781.  It  was  followed  in  1788  by  the 
«  Critique  of  Practical  Reason, >*  and  in  1790  by  the  <<  Critique  of  the 
Power  of  Jiidgment.*^  Among  his  other  works  are  "Dreams  of  a  Ghost- 
Seer,*   "Observations  on  the    Sense   of   the   Beautiful   and    Sublime,* 


IMMANUEL   KANT  2415 

« Metaphysical  Elements  of  Legal  Science, '^  and  the  "Foundation  of 
the  Metaphysics  of  Ethics.'*  His  "Critique  of  Pure  Reason'*  is  often 
called  the  most  important  work  of  modern  philosophy. 


THE  CANON  OF  PURE  REASON 

OPINION  (the  "  Holding-to-be-True  **)  is  an  event  in  our  understand- 
ing which  may  repose  upon  objective  grounds,  but  requires 
also  subjective  cai»ses  in  the  mind  of  him  who  then  judges. 
If  it  be  valid  for  every  one,  so  far  as  it  has  only  reason,  the 
ground  thereof  is  then  objectively  sufficient,  and  the  holding  of 
a  thing  for  true  is  then  termed  Conviction.  If  it  have  only  its 
foundation  in  the  particular  quality  of  the  subject,  it  is  then 
termed  persuasion. 

Persuasion  is  a  mere  appearance,  since  the  ground  of  the  judg- 
ment which  lies    in    the    subject    only   is    held    to    be    objective. 
Consequently,  such  a  judgment  has  also  only  private   (individual) 
validity,  and  the  holding  of  a  thing  for  true    cannot  be  imparted. 
But  Truth  reposes  upon  the  accordance  with  the  object,  in  respect 
of  which,  consequently,  the  judgments  of  every  understanding  must 
be  accordant.       The  touchstone  of  the   holding  a  thing  for   true, 
whether  it  be  conviction  or   merely  persuasion,   is,   therefore,  ex- 
ternally, the  possibility  of  imparting  it    and  of  finding   this  hold- 
ing for  true,  valid  for  the  reason  of  every  man;  for  then  it  is  at 
least  a    presumption    that    the    ground    of    the    accordance    of   all 
judgments,  notwithstanding    the    difference   of  subjects    with  one 
another,  will  repose   upon   the   common   foundation,  namely,  the 
object  with   which  they,  consequently,  will  all  accord,  and  thereby 
prove  the  truth  of  the  judgment. 

Hence  persuasion  cannot  certainly  be  distinguished  subjectively 
from  conviction,  if  the  subject  have  before  its  eyes  the  holding 
for  true  merely  as  a  phenomenon  of  its  own  mind:  but  the  experi- 
ment which  we  make  with  the  grounds  of  this,  which  arc  valid 
for  us,  as  to  another  understanding,  whether  they  operate  the 
selfsame  effect  upon  this  other  reason  as  upon  ours  is,  never- 
theless, a  means,  although  only  a  subjective  one,  not  assuredly 
for  operating  conviction,  but,  nevertheless,  for  disclosing  the 
merely  private  validity  of  the  judgment,  that  is  to  say,  something 
in  it,  which  is  mere  persuasion. 

If,  moreover,  we  can  develop  the  subjective  causes  of  the 
judgment,  which  we  take   for  its  objective   grounds,   and,  conse- 


24 1 6  IMMANUEL  KANT 

quently,  explain  the  deceptive  holding  for  true,  as  an  event  in 
our  mind,  without  having  need  for  this  of  the  quality  of  the  ob- 
ject, we  thus  expose  the  appearance,  and  are  thereby  no  longer 
deceived,  although  we  still  are  always  in  a  certain  degree  cajoled, 
if  the  subjective  cause  of   the   appearance   belong  to  our  nature. 

I  can  maintain  nothing  (that  is,  declare  it  as  a  necessarily 
valid  judgment  for  every  man),  except  what  produces  conviction. 
Persuasion  I  can  retain  for  myself,  if  I  am  content  with  it,  but 
I  cannot  wish,  and  ought  not  to  wish  to  make  it  valid  beyond 
myself. 

The  holding  for  true,  or  the  subjective  validity  of  the  judg- 
ment, in  reference  to  conviction  (which  at  the  same  time  is 
objectively  valid)  has  the  three  following  degrees:  Opining,  Be- 
lieving, and  Knowing.  Opining  is  an  insufficient  holding  for 
true  with  consciousness,  subjectively  equally  as  objectively.  If 
this  last  (holding  for  true)  is  only  sufficient,  subjectively,  and  is 
at  the  same  time  held  to  be  insufficient,  objectively,  it  is  then 
termed  Believing.  Lastly,  the  sufficient  holding  for  true,  sub- 
jectively equally  as  well  as  objectively,  is  termed  Knowledge. 
The  subjective  sufficiency  is  termed  Conviction  (as  to  myself),  the 
objective  certainty  (as  to  every  one).  I  shall  not  stop  for  the 
explanation  of  such  comprehensible  conceptions. 

I  must  never  venture  to  opine  without  at  least  knowing  some- 
thing, by  means  of  which  the  merely  problematical  judgment  in 
itself  receives  a  connection  with  truth,  which  connection,  although 
not  complete,  is  still  more  than  arbitrary  fiction.  The  law,  more- 
over, of  such  a  connection  must  be  certain.  For  if  I  in  respect 
of  the  law  have  also  nothing  but  opinion,  then  everything  is  only 
a  play  of  the  imagination,  without  the  least  reference  to  truth. 
In  judgments  from  pure  reason,  it  is  not  at  all  permitted  to 
opine.  For  since  they  are  not  supported  upon  reasons  of  expe- 
rience, but  everything  is  to  be  cognized  a  priori^  where  every- 
thing is  necessary,  the  principle  of  connection  thus  requires 
universality  —  as  otherwise  no  guide  at  all  to  truth  is  met  with. 
It  is,  therefore,  absurd  to  opine  in  pure  mathematics;  we  must 
know,  or  abstain  from  all  judgment.  The  case  is  just  the  same 
with  the  principles  of  morality,  as  we  must  not  hazard  an  action 
upon  the  mere  opinion  that  something  is  permitted,  but  we  must 
know  it. 

In  the  transcendental  use  of  reason,  on  the  other  hand,  to 
opine   is   certainly  too   little,  but   to   know  is  likewise   too  much. 


IMMANUEL   KANT  241^ 

With  mere  speculative  intention  we  cannot,  therefore,  at  all  judge 
in  this  case,  since  subjective  grounds  of  holding  for  true,  such  as 
those  which  can  effect  belief,  deserve  no  approbation  in  specula- 
tive questions,  because  they  do  not  sustain  themselves  free  of  all 
empirical  assistance,  nor  are  imparted  to  others  in  equal  measure. 

But  the  theoretical  insuflBcient  holding  for  true  may  be 
termed  generally  belief,  merely  in  practical  reference.  Now  this 
practical  intention  is  either  that  of  ability,  or  of  morality, —  the 
first  for  arbitrary  and  contingent  ends,  but  the  second  for  those 
absolutely  necessary. 

If  once  an  end  be  proposed,  the  conditions  for  its  attainment 
are  thus  hypothetically  necessary.  The  necessity  is  subjective, 
but  still  only  comparatively  sufi&cient,  if  I  know  no  other  condl* 
tions  at  all  by  which  the  end  was  to  be  attained;  but  it  is  abso- 
lute and  sufficient  for  every  one,  if  I  know  certainly  that  no  one 
can  be  acquainted  with  other  conditions  that  lead  to  the  pro- 
posed end.  In  the  first  case,  my  presupposition  and  the  holding 
for  true  of  certain  conditions,  is  mere  contingent  belief,  but  in 
the  second  case,  a  necessary  one.  The  physician  is  compelled  to 
do  something  for  his  patient  who  is  in  danger;  but  he  is  not  ac- 
quainted with  the  disease.  He  looks  at  symptoms,  and  judges, 
since  he  knows  nothing  better,  that  it  is  a  phthisis.  His  beHef 
in  his  own  judgment  even  is  merely  contingent;  another  per- 
haps might  better  hit  upon  it.  I  term  such  belief  contingent, 
but  what  lies  at  the  foundation  of  the  real  use  of  means  for  cer- 
tain actions  is  the  pragmatical  belief. 

The  usual  touchstone,  whether  something  is  mere  persuasion, 
or  at  least  subjective  conviction,  that  is,  firm  belief,  which  a  cer- 
tain one  maintains,  is  Wagering.  Frequently  a  man  states  his 
propositions  with  such  confident  and  inflexible  defiance  that  he 
seems  wholly  to  have  laid  aside  all  apprehension  of  error.  A 
wager  startles  him.  Sometimes  it  appears  that  he  certainly  pos- 
sesses enough  persuasion  as  may  be  estimated  at  a  ducat  in 
value,  but  not  at  ten.  For  as  to  the  first  ducat  he,  indeed,  stakes 
readily,  but  at  ten  he  is  then  for  the  first  time  aware,  which 
previously  he  had  not  remarked,  namely,  that  it  is  neverthe- 
less very  possible  he  is  in  error.  Provided  we  represented  to 
our  mind  that  we  were  to  wager  the  happiness  of  a  whole 
life  upon  this,  our  exulting  judgment  would  then  give  way  very 
much  and  we  should  be  exceedingly  alarmed,  and  so  discover  for 
the  first  time  that  our  belief  did  not  extend  thus  far.  The  prag- 
VI — 152 


2418  IMMANUEL  KANT 

matic  belief  has  in  this  way  only  a  degree,  which,  according  to 
the  difference  of  interest  that  is  at  stake  therein,  may  be  great 
or  yet  small. 

But  as,  although  in  relation  to  an  object  we  can  undertake 
nothing  at  all,  and  therefore  the  holding  for  true  is  merely  theo- 
retical, still  in  many  cases  we  may  embrace  and  imagine  to 
ourselves  in  thought  an  undertaking  for  which  we  fancy  we 
possess  sufficient  grounds,  provided  there  is  a  means  for  consti- 
tuting certainty  of  the  thing,  so  there  is,  in  mere  theoretical 
judgments,  an  analogon  of  what  is  practical,  the  holding  of 
which  for  true,  the  word  Believing  suits,  and  which  we  may  term 
Doctrinal  Belief.  If  it  were  possible  to  decide  through  an  experi- 
ence, so  might  I  very  well  wager,  as  to  this  point,  all  that  is 
mine,  that,  at  least  in  some  one  of  the  planets  that  we  see, 
there  were  inhabitants.  Consequently,  I  say  it  is  not  mere  opin- 
ion but  a  firm  belief  (as  to  the  correctness  of  which  I  would,  to 
begin  with,  hazard  many  advantages  in  life)  that  there  are  also 
inhabitants  of  other  worlds. 

Now  we  must  confess  that  the  doctrine  of  the  existence  of 
God  belongs  to  doctrinal  belief.  For,  although  in  respect  of 
theoretical  cognition  of  the  world,  I  have  nothing  to  arrange 
which  necessarily  presupposes  this  idea,  as  the  condition  of  my 
explanations  of  the  phenomena  of  the  world,  but  rather  am  com- 
pelled so  to  make  use  of  my  reason  as  if  everything  were 
merely  nature,  still,  the  unity  conformable  to  its  end  is  so  great 
a  condition  of  the  application  of  reason  to  nature,  that  since  experi- 
ence moreover  furnishes  me  freely  with  examples  of  it,  I  cannot 
at  all  pass  it  by.  But  for  this  unity  I  know  no  other  condition 
which  it  made  to  me,  as  a  clew  for  my  investigation  of  nature, 
but  when  I  presuppose  that  a  supreme  intelligence  has  thus 
ordered  everything  according  to  the  wisest  ends.  Consequently, 
it  is  a  condition,  certainly  of  a  casual,  but  yet  not  unimportant 
intention,  namely,  in  order  to  have  a  guide  in  the  investigation 
of  nature,  to  presuppose  a  wise  Creator  of  the  world.  The  result 
of  my  researches,  likewise,  so  frequently  confirms  the  utility  of 
this  presupposition,  and  nothing  can  decidedly  be  adduced  in  oppo- 
sition, that  I  say  much  too  little,  if  I  desire  to  term  my  holding 
for  true,  merely  an  opining,  for  it  may  even  be  said  in  this 
theoretic  relationship,  that  I  firmly  believe  in  God  —  but  this 
belief,  however,  in  strict  signification,  is  then,  nevertheless, 
not  practical,  but   must  be  termed   a   doctrinal   belief,  which  the 


IMMANUEL   KANT 


2419 


theology  of  nature  (physico-theology)  must  everywhere  necessarily 
operate.  In  respect  of  this  selfsame  wisdom,  in  regard  of  the 
excellent  endowment  of  human  nature,  and  the  shortness  of 
life  so  badly  adapted  to  it,  an  equally  satisfactory  cause  for  a 
doctrinal  belief  in  the  future  life  of  the  human  soul  may  be  met 
with. 

The  expression  of  belief  is  in  such  cases  an  expression  of 
modesty  as  to  objective  intention,  but,  at  the  same  time,  of  the 
firmness  of  confidence  as  to  subjective.  If  I  wished  to  term  here 
the  mere  theoretical  holding  for  true  (hypothesis  only),  which  I 
was  justified  in  admitting,  I  should  thereby  already  find  myself 
pledged  to  have  a  conception,  more  as  to  the  quality  of  a  cause 
of  the  world  and  of  another  world  than  I  really  can  show  —  for 
Vv'hat  I  assume  likewise  only  as  hypothesis,  of  this  must  I,  ac- 
cording to  its  properties,  at  least,  still  know  so  much,  that  I 
must  not  invent  its  conception,  but  only  its  existence.  But  the 
word  Belief  refers  only  to  the  guide  which  an  idea  gives  me,  and 
to  the  subjective  influence  upon  the  advancement  of  my  actions 
of  reason,  which  keeps  me  fast  to  the  same  guide,  although 
as  to  this  I  am  not  in  a  state  to  give  an  account  with  a  specu- 
lative view. 

But  the  mere  doctrinal  belief  has  something  unsteady  about 
it;  one  is  often  turned  from  this,  through  difficulties  which  pre- 
sent themselves  in  speculation,  although  we  certainly  always  in- 
fallibly return  back  again  thereto. 

It  is  quite  otherwise  with  moral  belief.  For  there  it  is  ab- 
solutely necessary  that  something  must  happen,  namely,  that  I 
should  in  all  points  fulfill  the  moral  law.  The  object  is  here  in- 
dispensably established,  and  there  is  only  one  single  condition, 
according  to  my  introspection,  possible,  under  which  this  end 
coheres  with  all  ends  together,  and  thereby  possesses  objective 
validity,  namely,  that  there  is  a  God  and  a  future  world:  —  I  also 
know  quite  certainly  that  no  one  is  acquainted  with  other 
conditions  that  lead  to  this  unity  of  ends  under  the  moral  law. 
But  as  the  moral  precept,  therefore,  is  at  the  same  time  ray 
maxim  (as  reason  then  commands  that  it  is  to  be  so),  I  shall 
thus  infallibly  believe  the  existence  of  God  and  a  future  life, 
and  I  am  sure  that  nothing  can  render  this  belief  vacillating, 
since  thereby  my  moral  principles  themselves  would  be  sub- 
verted, which  I  cannot  relinquish  without  being  detestable  in 
my  own  eyes. 


2420  IMMANUEL  KANT 

In  such  a  way  there  still  remains  to  us  enough,  after  the  dis- 
appointment of  all  the  ambitious  views  of  a  reason  wandering 
about  beyond  the  limits  of  experience,  that  we  have  cause  to  be 
satisfied  therewith  in  a  practical  point  of  view.  Certainly,  no 
one  is  able  to  boast  that  he  knows  there  is  a  God,  and  that  there 
is  a  future  life,  for  if  he  knows  this,  he  is  then  exactly  the  man 
whom  I  long  have  sought  after.  All  knowing  (if  it  concern  an 
object  of  pure  reason)  can  be  imparted,  and  I  should  likewise, 
therefore,  be  able  to  hope  through  his  instruction  to  see  my 
knowledge  extended  in  so  wonderful  a  manner.  But  no,  the  con- 
viction is  not  logical  but  moral  certitude,  and  as  it  reposes  upon 
subjective  grounds  (moral  sentiment),  so  must  I  not  ever  state 
that  it  is  morally  certain  there  is  a  God,  etc.,  but  that  I  am 
morally  certain.  That  is,  the  belief  in  a  God  and  another  world 
is  so  interwoven  with  my  moral  sentiment,  that  as  little  as  I  run 
the  danger  of  losing  the  first,  just  so  little  do  I  fear  that  the 
second  can  ever  be  torn  from  me. 

The  only  difficulty  which  is  met  with  in  this  case  is  that  this 
reason-belief  is  founded  upon  the  presupposition  of  moral  senti- 
ments. If  we  depart  from  this,  and  adopt  a  belief  that  would  be 
quite  indifferent  as  to  moral  laws,  the  question  then  which  rea- 
son proposes  becomes  merely  a  problem  for  speculation,  and  may 
then  certainly  be  still  supported  by  strong  grounds  from  analogy, 
but  never  by  those  to  which  the  stubbornest  skepticism  must  sur- 
render. But  in  these  questions  no  man  is  free  from  all  interest. 
For  although  he  might  be  severed  from  the  moral  one  by  the 
want  of  good  sentiments,  still  there  yet  remains  enough  besides, 
in  this  case,  in  order  to  cause  that  he  should  fear  a  divine  exis- 
tence and  a  futurity.  For  nothing  further  is  required  for  this 
purpose  than  that  he  is  not  able  to  plead  certainty,  that  no  such 
being  and  no  future  life  is  to  be  met  with;  for  which  effect, 
inasmuch  as  this  must  be  shown  through  mere  reason, —  conse- 
quently, apodeictically, —  he  would  have  to  demonstrate  the  impos- 
sibility of  both,  which  certainly  no  rational  being  can  undertake. 
This  would  be  a  negative  belief,  which  certainly  could  not  pro- 
duce morality  and  good  sentiments,  but  yet  the  analogon  of  the 
same,  that  is,  could  restrain  powerfully  the  outbreak  of  what 
is  bad. 

But  it  will  be  said,  is  this  all  which  Pure  Reason  executes  in 
opening  out  views  beyond  the  limits  of  experience?  Nothing 
more   than   two   articles  of   belief  ?     The   common   understanding 


IMMANUEL   KANT  242  1 

without,  as  to  this,  consulting  philosophers,  would  have  been  able 
also,  in  fact,  to  execute  as  much! 

I  will  not  here  boast  of  the  merit  which  philosophy  has,  as  to 
human  reason,  by  means  of  the  laborious  effort  of  its  critique  — 
though  it  be  granted  that  such  merit  also  in  the  result  were  to 
be  found  merely  negative;  for  as  to  this,  something  more  will 
appear  in  the  following  section.  But  do  you  require,  then,  that 
a  cognition  which  concerns  all  men  should  transcend  the  common 
understanding,  and  should  only  be  discovered  to  you  by  philoso- 
phers ?  That  very  thing  which  you  blame  is  the  best  confirmation 
of  the  correctness  of  the  previous  assertions,  since  it  discovers 
what  in  the  beginning  we  could  not  foresee,  namely,  that  nature 
in  respect  of  that  which  affects  all  men  without  distinction  has 
not  to  be  charged  with  any  partial  distribution  of  its  gifts,  and 
that  the  highest  philosophy,  in  respect  of  the  essential  ends  of 
human  nature,  cannot  advance  any  further  than  the  guide  which 
nature  likewise  conferred  upon  the  most  common  understanding. 

Complete.     From  the  "Critique  of  Pure  Reason. » 
Haywood's  translation. 


3422 


THOMAS   KEIGHTLEY 

(1789-1872) 

3he  essays  of  Keightley's  <<  Fairy  Mythology,  >>  which  appeared 
in  1828,  are  the  beginning  of  the  serious  attempt  to  make  a 
science  of  Folklore;  but  they  are  not  too  serious  or  too 
scientific  to  be  delightful  reading  for  people  of  all  ages.  Its  author, 
who  wrote  nothing  else  to  compare  with  it,  was  born  in  Ireland,  in 
1789,  and  educated  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin.  From  1824  to  his 
death  in  1872,  he  lived  in  England,  occupied  chiefly  with  the  prepara- 
tion of  educational  text-books. 


ON  MIDDLE-AGE   ROMANCE 

Ecco  quel  che  le  carte  empion  di  sogni, 
Lancilotto,  Tristano  e  gli  altri  erranti, 
Onde  conven  che  il  volgo  errante  agogni. 

—  Petrarca. 

FEW  will  now  endeavor  to  trace  romantic  and  marvelous  fiction 
to  any  individual  source.  An  extensive  survey  of  the  regions 
of  fancy  and  their  productions  will  incline  us  rather  to  consi- 
der the  mental  powers  of  man  as  having  a  uniform  operation 
under  every  sky,  and  under  every  form  of  political  existence,  and 
to  acknowledge  that  identity  of  invention  is  not  more  to  be  won- 
dered at  than  identity  of  action.  It  is  strange  how  limited  the 
powers  of  the  imagination  are.  Without  due  consideration  of  the 
subject,  it  might  be  imagined  that  her  stores  of  materials  and 
powers  of  combination  are  boundless;  yet  reflection,  however 
slight,  will  convince  us  that  here  also  "  there  is  nothing  new, "  and 
charges  of  plagiarism  will,  in  the  majority  of  cases,  be  justly  sus- 
pected to  be  devoid  of  foundation.  The  finest  poetical  expres- 
sions and  similes  of  occidental  literature  meet  us  when  we  turn 
our  attention  to  the  East,  and  a  striking  analogy  pervades  the 
tales  and  fictions  of  every  region.  The  reason  is,  the  materials 
presented  to  the  inventive  faculties  are  scanty.  The  power  of 
combination  is  therefore  limited  to  a  narrow  compass,  and  simi- 
lar combinations  must  hence  frequently  occur. 


THOMAS   KEIGHTLEY  2423 

Yet  still  there  is  a  high  degree  of  probability  in  the  supposi- 
tion of  the  luxuriant  fictions  of  the  East  having  through  Spain 
and  Syria  operated  on  European  fancy.  The  poetry  and  romance 
of  the  Middle  Ages  are  notoriously  richer  in  detail,  and  more 
gorgeous  in  invention  than  the  more  correct  and  chaste  strains 
of  Greece  and  Latium;  the  island  of  Calypso,  for  example,  is  in 
beauty  and  variety  left  far  behind  by  the  retreats  of  the  fairies 
of  romance.     Whence  arises  this  difference  ?     No  doubt  — 

"  When  ancient  chivalry  display'd 
The  pomp  of  her  heroic  games, 
And  crested  knights  and  tissued  dames 
Assembled  at  the  clarion's  call, 
In  some  proud  castle's  high-arch'd  hall  >* — 

that  a  degree  of  pomp  and  splendor  met  the  eye  of  the  minstrel 
and  romancer  on  which  the  bards  of  the  simple  republics  of  an- 
cient times  had  never  gazed,  and  this  might  account  for  the  dif- 
ference between  the  poetry  of  ancient  and  of  middle-age  Europe. 
Yet,  notwithstanding,  we  discover  such  an  Orientalism  in  the  lat- 
ter as  would  induce  us  to  acquiesce  in  the  hypothesis  of  the  fic- 
tions and  the  manner  of  the  East  having  been  early  transmitted 
to  the  West ;  and  it  is  highly  probable  that  along  with  more  splen- 
did habits  of  life  entered  a  more  lavish  use  of  the  gorgeous  stores 
laid  open  to  the  plastic  powers  of  fiction.  The  tales  of  Arabia 
were  undoubtedly  known  in  Europe  from  a  very  early  period. 
The  romance  of  "  Cl^omad^s  and  Claremonde,"  which  was  written 
in  the  thirteenth  century,  not  merely  resembles,  but  actually  is 
the  story  of  the  Enchanted  Horse  in  the  "  Thousand  and  One 
Nights."  Another  tale  in  the  same  collection,  the  two  sisters 
who  envied  their  younger  sister,  may  be  found  in  Straparola,  and 
is  also  a  popular  story  in  Germany;  and  in  the  "  Pcntameron  "  and 
other  collections  of  talcs  published  long  before  the  appearance 
of  M.  Galland's  translation  of  the  Eastern  ones,  numerous  traces 
of  an  Oriental  origin  may  be  discerned.  The  principal  routes 
they  came  by  may  also  be  easily  shown.  The  necessities  of  com- 
merce and  the  pilgrimage  to  Mecca  occasioned  a  constant  inter- 
course between  the  Moors  of  Spain  and  their  fellow-sectaries  of 
the  East;  and  the  Venetians,  who  were  the  owners  of  Candia, 
carried  on  an  extensive  trade  with  Syria  and  Egypt,  It  is  worthy 
of  notice  that  the  "  Notti  Piaccvoli  **  of  Straparola  were  first  pub- 
lished in  Venice,  and  that  Basile   the  author  of  the  "  Pcntameron,* 


2424  THOMAS  KEIGHTLEY 

Spent  his  youth  in  Candia,  and  was  afterwards  a  long  time  at 
Venice.  Lastly,  pilgrims  were  notorious  narrators  of  marvels, 
and  each,  as  he  visited  the  Holy  Land,  was  anxious  to  store  his 
memory  with  those  riches,  the  diffusal  of  which  procured  him  at- 
tention and  hospitality  at  home. 

We  think,  therefore,  that  European  romance  may  be  indebted, 
though  not  for  the  name,  yet  for  some  of  the  attributes  and  ex- 
ploits of  its  fairies  to  Asia.  This  is  more  especially  the  case 
with  the  romances  composed  or  turned  into  prose  in  the  four- 
teenth, fifteenth,  and  sixteenth  centuries;  for  in  the  earlier  ones 
the  "  Fairy  Mythology  '^  is  much  more  sparingly  introduced. 

From  « Fairy  Mythology.** 

ARABIAN    ROMANCE 

THE  Prophet  is  the  centre  round  which  everything  connected 
with  Arabia  revolves.  The  period  preceding  his  birth  is 
regarded  and  designated  as  the  times  of  ignorance,  and  our 
knowledge  of  the  ancient  Arabian  mythology  comprises  little 
more  than  he  has  been  pleased  to  transmit  to  us.  The  Arabs, 
however,  appear  at  no  period  of  their  history  to  have  been  a 
people  addicted  to  fanciful  invention.  Their  minds  are  acute  and 
logical,  and  their  poetry  is  that  of  the  heart  rather  than  of  the 
fancy.  They  dwell  with  fondness  on  the  joys  and  pains  of  love, 
and  with  enthusiasm  describe  the  courage  and  daring  deeds  of 
warriors,  or  in  moving  strains  pour  forth  the  plaintive  elegy;  but 
for  the  description  of  gorgeous  palaces  and  fragrant  gardens,  or 
for  the  wonders  of  magic,  they  are  indebted  chiefly  to  their 
Persian  neighbors. 

What  classes  of  beings  the  popular  creed  may  have  recognized 
before  the  establishment  of  Islam,  we  have  no  means  of  ascer- 
taining. The  Suspended  Poems,  and  Antar,  give  us  little  or  no 
information ;  we  know  only  that  the  tales  of  Persia  were  current 
among  them,  and  were  listened  to  with  such  avidity  as  to  rouse 
the  indignation  of  the  Prophet.  We  must,  therefore,  quit  the 
tents  of  the  Bedoween,  and  the  valleys  of  «Araby  the  Blest, » 
and  accompany  the  khaleefehs  to  their  magnificent  capital  on  the 
Tigris,  whence  emanated  all  that  has  thrown  such  a  halo  of 
splendor  around  the  genius  and  language  of  Arabia.  It  is  in 
this  seat  of  empire  that  we  must  look  to  meet  with  the  origin  of 
the  marvels  of  Arabian  literature, 


THOMAS  KEIGHTLEY  2425 

Transplanted  to  a  rich  and  fertile  soil,  the  sons  of  the  desert 
speedily  abandoned  their  former  simple  mode  of  life;  and  the 
court  of  Bagdad  equaled  or  surpassed  in  magnificence  anything 
that  the  East  has  ever  witnessed.  Genius,  whatever  its  direc- 
tion, was  encouraged  and  rewarded,  and  the  musician  and  the 
story-teller  shared  with  the  astronomer  and  historian  the  favor  of 
the  munificent  khaleefehs.  The  tales  which  had  amused  the  lei- 
sure of  the  Shapoors  and  Yezdcjirds  were  not  disdained  by  the 
Haroons  and  Almansoors.  The  expert  narrators  altered  them  so 
as  to  accord  with  the  new  faith.  And  it  was  thus,  probably,  that 
the  delightful  «  Thousand  and  One  Nights  >^  were  gradually  pro- 
duced and  modified. 

As  the  Genii  or  Jinn  are  prominent  actors  in  these  tales, 
where  they  take  the  place  of  the  Persian  Peries  and  Deevs,  we 
will  here  give  some  account  of  them. 

According  to  Arabian  writers,  there  is  a  species  of  beings 
named  Jinn  or  Jan  (Jinnee  m.,  Jinniyeh  f.  sing.),  which  were 
created  and  occupied  the  earth  several  thousand  years  before 
Adam,  A  tradition  from  the  Prophet  says  that  they  were  formed 
of  «  smokeless  fire,>>  i.  e.,  the  fire  of  the  wind  Simoom.  They 
were  governed  by  a  succession  of  forty,  or,  as  others  say,  seventy- 
two  monarchs,  named  Suleyman,  the  last  of  whom,  called  Jan- 
ibn-Jan,  built  the  Pyramids  of  Egypt.  Prophets  were  sent  from 
time  to  time  to  instruct  and  admonish  them;  but  on  their  contin- 
ued disobedience,  an  army  of  angels  appeared,  who  drove  them 
from  the  earth  to  the  regions  of  the  islands,  making  many  pris- 
oners, and  slaughtering  many  more.  Among  the  prisoners  was  a 
young  Jinnee,  named  Azazeel,  or  El-Harith  (afterwards  called 
Iblees,  from  his  despair),  who  grew  up  among  the  angels,  and 
became  at  last  their  chief.  When  Adam  was  created,  God  com- 
manded the  angels  to  worship  him;  and  they  all  obeyed  except 
Iblees,  who,  for  his  disobedience,  was  turned  into  a  Sheytan  or 
Devil,  and  he  became  the  father  of  the  Shcytans. 

The  Jinn  are  not  immortal;  they  are  to  survive  mankind,  but 
to  die  before  the  general  resurrection.  Even  at  present  many  of 
them  are  slain  by  other  Jinn,  or  by  men;  but  chiefly  by  shooting 
stars  hurled  at  them  from  heaven.  The  fire  of  which  they  were 
created  circulates  in  their  veins  instead  of  blood,  and  when  they 
receive  a  mortal  wound  it  bursts  forth  and  consumes  them  to 
ashes.  They  eat  and  drink,  and  propagate  their  species.  Some- 
times they  unite  with    human  beings,  and  the   offspring  partakes 


2426  THOMAS  KEIGHTLEY 

of  the  nature  of  both  parents.  Some  of  the  Jinn  are  obedient  to 
the  will  of  God,  and  believers  in  the  Prophet,  answering  to  the 
Peries  of  the  Persians;  others  are  like  the  Deevs,  disobedient  and 
malignant.  Both  kinds  are  divided  into  communities,  and  ruled 
over  by  princes.  They  have  the  power  to  make  themselves  visi- 
ble and  invisible  at  pleasure.  .They  can  assume  the  form  of  va- 
rious animals,  especially  those  of  serpents,  cats,  and  dogs.  When 
they  appear  in  the  human  form,  that  of  the  good  Jinnee  is  usu- 
ally of  great  beauty;  that  of  the  evil  one,  of  hideous  deformity 
and  sometimes  of   gigantic  size. 

When  the  Zoba'ah,  a  whirlwind  that  raises  the  sand  in  the 
form  of  a  pillar  of  tremendous  height,  is  seen  sweeping  over  the 
desert,  the  Arabs,  who  believe  it  to  be  caused  by  the  flight  of 
the  evil  Jinnee,  cry.  Iron!  Iron!  {Hadeed !  Hadeed !)  or  Iron! 
thou  unlucky  one !  {Hadeed !  ya  meshoom  !)  of  which  metal  the 
Jinn  are  believed  to  have  a  great  dread.  Or  else  they  cry,  God 
is  most  great!  {Allahu  akbar !)  They  do  the  same  when  they 
see  a  water  spout  at  sea;  for  they  assign  the  same  cause  to  its 
origin. 

The  chief  abode  of  the  Jinn  of  both  kinds  is  the  mountains 
of  Kaf.  But  they  also  are  dispersed  through  the  earth,  and  they 
occasionally  take  up  their  residence  in  baths,  wells,  latrinae, 
ovens,  and  ruined  houses.  They  also  frequent  the  sea  and  rivers, 
crossroads,  and  market  places.  They  ascend  at  times  to  the 
confines  of  the  lowest  heaven,  and  by  listening  there  to  the  con- 
versation of  the  angels  they  obtain  some  knowledge  of  futurity, 
which  they  impart  to  those  men  who,  by  means  of  talismans  or 
magic  arts,  have  been  able  to  reduce  them  to  obedience. 

The  following  are  anecdotes  of  the  Jinn,  given  by  historians 
of  eminence:  — 

It  is  related,  says  El-Kasweenee,  by  a  certain  narrator  of  tra- 
ditions, that  he  descended  into  a  valley  with  his  sheep,  and  a 
wolf  carried  off  a  ewe  from  among  them ;  and  he  arose  and  raised 
his  voice,  and  cried:  ^<  O  inhabitant  of  the  valley!'*  whereupon 
he  heard  a  voice  saying,  *<  O  wolf,  restore  him  his  sheep !  '*  and 
the  wolf  came  with  the  ewe  and  left  her,  and  departed. 

Ben  Shohnah  relates'that  in  the  year  456  of  the  Hejgira,  in  the 
reign  of  Kaiem,  the  twenty- sixth  khaleefeh  of  the  house  of  Abbas, 
a  report  was  raised  in  Bagdad,  which  immediately  spread  through- 
out the  whole  province  of  Irak,  that  some  Turks  being  out  hunt- 
ing saw   in   the  desert  a  black   tent,  beneath  which   there  was  a 


THOMAS  KEIGHTLEY  2427 

number  of  people  of  both  sexes  who  were  beating  their  cheeks, 
and  uttering  loud  cries,  as  is  the  custom  in  the  East  when  any 
one  is  dead.  Amidst  their  cries  they  heard  these  words  —  The 
great  king  of  the  Jinn  is  dead,  woe  to  this  country!  and  then 
there  came  out  a  great  troop  of  women,  followed  by  a  number 
of  other  rabble,  who  proceeded  to  a  neighboring  cemetery,  still 
beating  themselves  in  token  of  grief  and  mourning. 

The  celebrated  historian  Ebn  Athir  relates  that  when  he  was 
at  Mosul  on  the  Tigris,  in  the  year  600  of  the  Hejgira,  there  was 
in  that  country  an  epidemic  disease  of  the  throat;  and  it  was  said 
that  a  woman  of  the  race  of  the  Jinn  having  lost  her  son,  all 
those  who  did  not  condole  with  her  on  account  of  his  death  were 
attacked  with  that  disease;  so  that  to  be  cured  of  it  men  and 
women  assembled,  and  with  all  their  strength  cried  out,  O  mother 
of  Ankood,  excuse  us!    Ankood  is  dead,  and  we  did  not  mind  it! 

Complete.     From  «  Fairy  Mythology. » 


HOW  TO   READ   OLD-ENGLISH   POETRY 

OUR  forefathers,  like  their  Gotho-German  kindred,  regulated 
their  verse  by  the  number  of  accents,  not  of  syllables. 
The  foot,  therefore,  as  we  term  it,  might  consist  of  one, 
two,  three,  or  even  four  syllables,  provided  it  had  only  one  strongly 
marked  accent.  Further,  the  accent  of  a  word  might  be  varied, 
chiefly  by  throwing  it  on  the  last  syllable,  as  natiire  for  nature, 
honour  for  honour,  etc.  (the  Italians,  by  the  way,  throw  it  back 
when  two  accents  come  into  collision,  as,  II  Pastor  Fido) ;  they 
also  sounded  what  the  French  call  the  feminine  e  of  their  words, 
as.  In  oldb  daybs  of  the  King  Artoiir;  and  so  well  known  seems  this 
practice  to  have  been,  that  the  copyists  did  not  always  write  this 
e,  relying  on  the  skill  of  the  reader  to  supply  it.  Tliere  was 
only  one  restriction,  namely,  that  it  was  never  to  come  before  a 
vowel,  unless  where  there  was  a  pause.  In  this  way  the  poetry 
of  the  Middle  Ages  was  just  as  regular  as  that  of  the  present 
day;  and  Chaucer,  when  properly  read,  is  fully  as  harmonious  as 
Pope.  But  the  editors  of  our  ancient  poems,  with  the  exception 
of  Tyrwhitt,  seem  to  have  been  ignorant  or  regardless  of  this 
principle ;  and  in  the  "  Canterbury  Tales  '*  alone  is  the  verse  pro- 
perly arranged. 

From  "Fairy  Mythology." 


2428 


THOMAS  A   KEMPIS 

(c.  1380-1471) 

Ihomas  a  Kempis,  the  greatest  devotional  writer  since  apos- 
tolic times,  was  born  at  Kempen,  in  Rhenish  Prussia,  about 
1380,  His  father,  whose  name  was  «  Hammerken,**  was  a 
poor  peasant,  but  his  mother  (<*  sparing  in  her  words,  and  modest  in 
her  actions,"  as  he  tells  us  she  was),  was  well  enough  educated  to 
teach  the  village  school  for  young  children.  To  her  influence,  no 
doubt,  the  world  owes  the  "De  Imitatione  Christi,>>  which  "has  been 
translated  into  more  languages  than  any  other  book  except  the  Bible. » 
After  leaving  his  mother's  school,  Thomas  became  a  pupil  of  Rade- 
wyn  at  Kempen,  and  took  the  name  of  the  school  instead  of  that  of 
his  family.  Joining  the  Augustinian  order,  he  entered  the  convent 
of  Mount  St.  Agnes,  where  he  remained  until  his  death  at  the  age  of 
ninety-one  (August  8th,  1471).  He  was  first  subprior  and  then  prior 
of  the  convent;  but  after  his  promotion  to  the  priorship,  he  was  re- 
duced to  subprior  again,  as  having  too  little  shrewdness  for  business 
management.  His  authorship  of  the  « Imitation  of  Christ »  has  been 
questioned,  and  the  controversy  over  it  is  likely  to  continue.  The 
arguments  which  would  make  his  authorship  of  so  remarkable  a  work 
incredible,  because  of  his  simplicity  of  mind,  would  apply  even  more 
strongly  against  St.  John's  authorship  of  the  Fourth  Gospel.  The 
«De  Imitatione  Christi"  is  not  a  work  of  talent,  but  of  that  inspired 
genius  which  has  taken  hold  on  the  central  realities  of  life  through  its 
own  suffering. 


OF   WISDOM   AND    PROVIDENCE   IN   OUR  ACTIONS 

WE    MUST    not    give    ear    to    every    saying    or    suggestion,  but 
ought  warily  and  leisurely  to  ponder  things  according  to 
the  will  of  God. 
But    alas!    such   is  our  weakness    that  we  often    rather  believe 
and  speak  evil  of  others  than  good. 

Those  that  are  perfect  men  do  not  easily  give  credit  to  every- 
thing told  them;  for  they  know  that  human  frailty  is  prone  to 
evil,  and  very  subject  to  fail  in  words. 


THOMAS   A   KEMPIS  2429 

It  is  great  wisdom  not  to  be  rash  in  thy  proceedings,  nor 
to  stand  stiffly  in  thine  own  conceits; 

As  also  not  to  beheve  everything  which  thou  hearest,  nor 
presently  to  relate  again  to  others  what  thou  hast  heard  or  dost 
believe. 

Consult  with  him  that  is  wise  and  conscientious,  and  seek  to 
be  instructed  by  a  better  than  thyself,  rather  than  to  follow  thine 
own  inventions. 

A  good  life  maketh  a  man  wise  according  to  God,  and  giveth 
him  experience  in  many  things. 

The  more  humble  a  man  is  in  himself,  and  the  more  subject 
and  resigned  unto  God,  so  much  the  more  prudent  shall  he  be 
in  all  his  afiEairs,  and  enjoy  greater  peace  and  quiet  of  heart. 

Complete.     "Imitation  of  Christ,» 
Chap.  iv. 


OF  THE    PROFIT   OF   ADVERSITY 

{T  IS  good  that  we  have  sometimes  some  troubles  and  crosses; 
for  they  often   make  a  man    enter   into   himself,  and   consider 

that  he  is  here  in  banishment,  and  ought  not  to  place  his 
trust  in  any  worldly  thing. 

It  is  good  that  we  be  sometimes  contradicted,  and  that  there 
be  an  evil  or  a  lessening  conceit  had  of  us;  and  this,  although 
we  do  and  intend  well. 

These  things  help  often  to  the  attaining  of  humility,  and 
defend  us  from  vainglory;  for  then  we  chiefly  seek  God  for  our 
inward  witness,  when  outwardly  we  be  condemned  by  men,  and 
when  there  is  no  credit  given  unto  us. 

And  therefore  a  man  should  settle  himself  so  fully  in  God 
that  he  need  not  to  seek  many  comforts  of  men  with  evil  thougths; 
then  he  understandcth  better  the  great  need  he  hath  of  God, 
without  whom  he  perceiveth  he   can  do  nothing  that  is  good. 

Then  also  he  sorroweth,  lamenteth,  and  prayeth,  by  reason  of 
the  miseries  he  suffcrcth. 

Then  he  is  weary  of  living  longer,  and  wisheth  that  death 
would  come,   that  he  might  be  dissolved  and  be  with  Christ. 

Then    also    he  well    perceiveth    that    perfect    security  and    full 

peace  cannot  be  had  in  this  world. 

Complete.     "Imitation  of  Christ," 
Chap.  xii. 


2430  THOMAS  A  KEMPIS 

OP  AVOIDING  RASH  JUDGMENT 

TURN  thine  eyes  unto  thyself,  and  beware  thou  judge  not  the 
deeds  of  other  men.  In  judging  of  others  a  man  laboreth 
in  vain,  often  erreth,  and  easily  sinneth;  but  in  judging 
and  discussing  of  himself,  he  always  laboreth  fruitfully. 

We  often  judge  of  things  according  as  we  fancy  them;  for  pri- 
vate affection  bereaves  us  easily  of  true  judgment. 

If  God  were  always  the  pure  intention  of  our  desire,  we 
should  not  be  so  easily  troubled,  through  the  repugnance  of  our 
carnal  mind. 

But  oftentimes  something  lurketh  within,  or  else  occurreth 
fr^m  without,  which  draweth  us  after  it. 

Many  secretly  seek  themselves  in  their  actions,  and  know  it 
not. 

They  seem  also  to  live  in  good  peace  of  mind,  when  things 
are  done  according  to  their  will  and  opinion;  but  if  things  hap- 
pen otherwise  than  they  desire,  they  are  straightway  troubled 
and  much  vexed. 

The  diversities  of  judgments  and  opinions  cause  oftentimes 
dissensions  between  friends  and  countrymen,  between  religious 
and  devout  persons. 

An  old  custom  is  hardly  broken,  and  no  man  is  willing  to  be 
led  further  than  he  himself  can  see. 

If  thou  dost  more  rely  upon  thine  own  reason  or  industry 
than  upon  that  power  which  brings  thee  under  the  obedience  of 
Jesus  Christ,  it  will  be  long  before  thou  become  illuminated;  for 
God  will  have  us  perfectly  subject  unto  him,  that,  being  inflamed 
with    his  love,  we   may   transcend    the    narrow   limits   of   human 

reason. 

Complete.     « Imitation  of  Christ,* 
Chap.  xiv. 


OF  WORKS   DONE   IN  CHARITY 

FOR  no  worldly  thing,  nor  for  the  love  of  any  man,  is  any  evil 
to  be  done;  but  5'et  for  the  profit  of  one    that    standeth    in 
need,   a  good    work  is    sometimes  to  be  intermitted   without 
any  scruple,   or  changed  also  for  a  better. 

For  by  doing  this,  a  good  work  is  not  lost,  but  changed  into  a 
better. 


THOMAS  A   KEMPIS  2431 

"Without  charity  the  exterior  work  profiteth  nothing;  but  what- 
soever is  done  of  charity,  be  it  never  so  little  and  contemptible 
m  the  sight  of  the  world,  it  becomes  wholly  fruitful. 

For  God  weigheth  more  with  how  much  love  a  man  worketh, 
than  how  much  he  doeth.     He  doeth  much  that  loveth  much. 

He  doeth  much  that  doeth  a  thing  well. 

He  doeth  well  that  rather  serveth  the  community  than  his 
own  will. 

Oftentimes  it  seemeth  to  be  charity,  and  it  is  rather  carnality, 
because  natural  inclination,  self-will,  hope  of  reward,  and  desire 
of  our  own  interest,  will  seldom  be  away. 

He  that  hath  true  and  perfect  charity  seeketh  himself  in 
nothing,  but  only  desireth  in  all  things  that  the  glory  of  God 
should  be  exalted. 

He  also  envieth  none,  because  he  affecteth  no  private  good; 
neither  will  he  rejoice  in  himself,  but  wisheth  above  all  things 
to  be  made  happy  in  the  enjoyment  of  God. 

He  attributeth  nothing  that  is  good  to  any  man,  but  wholly 
referreth  it  unto  Godj  from  whom  as  from  the  fountain  all  things 
proceed;  in  whom  finally  all  the  saints  do  rest  as  in  their  highest 
fruition. 

Oh!  he  that  hath  but  one  spark  of  true  charity  would  cer- 
tainly discern  that  all  earthly  things  be  full  of   vanity. 

Complete.     <'  Imitation  of  Christ,* 
Chap.  XV. 


OF  BEARING  WITH  THE  DEFECTS  OF  OTHERS 

THOSE  things  that  a  man  cannot  amend  in  himself  or  in  others^ 
he  ought  to  suffer  patiently,   until  God  order   things   other- 
wise. 
Think  that  perhaps  it  is  better  so  for  thy  trial    and   patience, 
without  which  all  our  good  deeds  are  not  much  to  be   esteemed. 
Thou  oughtest  to  pray,  notwithstanding,  when  thou  hast    such 
impediments,   that  God  would  vouchsafe    to    help    thee,   and    that 
thou  mayst  bear  them  kindly. 

If  one  that  is  once  or  twice  warned  will  not  give  over, 
contend  not  with  him,  but  commit  all  to  God,  that  his  will  may 
be  fulfilled,  and  his  name  honored  in  all  his  servants,  who  well 
knowcth  how  to  turn  evil  into  good. 


9432 


THOMAS  A  KEMPIS 


Endeavor  to  be  patient  in  bearing  with  the  defects  and  in- 
firmities of  others,  of  what  sort  soever  they  be;  for  that  thou 
thyself  also  hast  many  failings  which  must  be  borne  with  by 
others. 

If  thou  canst  not  make  thyself  such  a  one  as  thou  wouldst, 
how  canst  thou  expect  to  have  another  in  all  things  to  thy 
liking  ? 

We  would  willingly  have  others  perfect,  and  yet  we  amend 
not  our  own  faults. 

We  will  have  others  severely  corrected,  and  will  not  be 
corrected  ourselves. 

The  large  liberty  of  others  displeaseth  us,  and  yet  we  will 
not  have  our  own  desires  denied  us. 

We  will  have  others  kept  under  by  strict  laws,  but  in  no  sort 
will  ourselves  be  restrained. 

And  thus  it  appeareth  how  seldom  we  weigh  our  neighbor 
in  the  same  balance  with  ourselves. 

If  all  men  were  perfect,  what  should  we  have  to  suffer  of  our 
neighbor  for  God  ? 

But  now  God  hath  thus  ordered  it,  that  we  may  learn  to 
bear  one  another's  burdens;  for  no  man  is  without  fault;  no  man 
but  hath  his  burden;  no  man  sufficient  of  himself;  no  man  wise 
enough  of  himself;  but  we  ought  to  bear  with  one  another,  com- 
fort one  another,  help,  instruct,  and  admonish  one  another. 

Occasions  of  adversity  best  discover  how  great  virtue  or 
strength  each  one  hath. 

For  occasions  do  not  make   a   man    frail,  but  they  show  what 

lie  is.  .        ,  ^,  .  . « 

Complete.     « Imitation  of  Chnst," 

Chap,  xvi 


OF   A    RETIRED   LIFE 

HpHou  must  learn  to  break  thy  own  will  in  many  things,  if  thou 
I       wilt  have  peace  and  concord  with  others. 

It  is  no  small  matter  to  dwell  in  a  religious  community 
and  to  converse  therein  without  complaint,  and  to  persevere 
therein  faithfully  unto  death. 

Blessed  is  he  that  hath  there  lived  well,    and    ended   happily. 

If  thou  wilt  persevere  in  grace  as  thou  oughtest,  and  profit  in 

virtue,  esteem  thyself  as  a  banished  man,  and  a  pilgrim  upon  earth 


THOMAa  A  KEMPIS  2433 

Thou  must  be  contented  for  Christ's  sake  to  be  esteemed  as 
a  fool  in  this  world,  if  thou  desire  to  lead  a  holy  life. 

The  wearing  of  a  religious  habit,  and  shaving  of  the  crown, 
do  little  profit;  but  change  of  manners,  and  perfect  mortification 
of  passions,  make  a  true  religious  man. 

He  that  seeketh  anything  else  but  God,  and  the  salvation  of 
his  soul,   shall  find  nothing  but  tribulation  and  sorrow. 

Neither  can  he  remain  long  in  peace,  that  laboreth  not  to  be 
the  least,   and  subject  unto  all. 

Thou  camest  to  serve,  not  to  rule.  Know  that  thou  wast 
called  to  suffer  and  to  labor,  not  to  be  idle,  or  to  spend  thy  time 
in  talk. 

Here,  therefore,  men  are  proved  as  gold  in  the  furnace. 

Here  no  man  can  stand,  unless  he  humble  himself  with  his 
whole  heart  for  the  love  of  God. 

Complete.     « Imitation  of  Christ," 
Chap.  xvii. 

VI— 153 


3434 


CHARLES   KINGSLEY 

(1819-1875) 

P^ingsley's  «  Prose  Idyls  *^  are  unique  among  his  productions  for 
their  restful  quality.  His  career  in  literature  and  in  the 
ministry  of  the  Church  of  England  was  inspired  by  the  spirit 
of  unrest  which  makes  progress  possible.  He  was  not  content  to  ac- 
cept anything  as  a  substitute  for  the  best  unless  it  were  the  best 
possible,  and  as  he  failed  to  find  that  in  the  religious,  social,  com- 
mercial, or  political  life  of  his  time,  he  did  his  best  to  bring  it  about. 
Born  in  Devonshire,  January  12th,  1819,  he  graduated  at  Cambridge, 
and  entering  the  ministry  of  the  English  Established  Church,  became 
Canon  first  of  Middleham,  then  of  Chester,  and  finally  of  Westmin- 
ster. The  "  agnostic  *^  spirit  of  science  moved  him  to  write  "  Hypatia, 
or  Old  Foes  with  New  Faces, '^ — a  very  remarkable  historical  study, 
more  widely  read,  no  doubt,  than  <' Yeast '^  and  ^*  Alton  Locke,  *^  two 
novels  with  a  sociological  motive  which  preceded  it.  His  ^*  Water 
Babies  ^^  is  a  child's  book  with  a  concealed  motive  of  protest  against 
theories  he  did  not  approve.     He  died  January  23d,  1875. 


A  CHARM    OF   BIRDS 

Is  IT  merely  a  fancy  that  we  English,  the  educated  people  among 
us  at  least,  are  losing  that  love  for  spring  which  among  our 
old  forefathers  rose  almost  to  worship  ?  That  the  perpetual 
miracle  of  the  budding  leaves  and  the  returning  song  birds  awakes 
no  longer  in  us  the  astonishment  which  it  awoke  yearly  among  the 
dwellers  in  the  Old  World,  when  the  sun  was  a  god  who  was  sick 
to  death  each  winter,  and  returned  in  spring  to  life,  and  health, 
and  glory;  when  the  death  of  Adonis,  at  the  autumnal  equinox, 
was  wept  over  by  the  Syrian  women,  and  the  death  of  Baldur, 
in  the  colder  north,  by  all  living  things,  even  to  the  dripping 
trees,  and  the  rocks  furrowed  by  the  autumn  rains;  when  Freya, 
the  goddess  of  youth  and  love,  went  forth  over  the  earth  each 
spring,  while  the  flowers  broke  forth  under  her  tread  over  the 
brown  moors,  and  the  birds  welcome  her  with  song;  when,  ac- 
cording   to  Olaus  Magnus,  the  Goths  and   South    Swedes    had,  on 


c 


p 

m 
Born  1 

.ter,  and   finally  of  Westmin- 

;A^  -        The  "  a^  uf  science  moved  him  to  write  "Hypatia, 

.,        ■'   Tees  wi ^^Jf^^gj^e^j^^^js.^    historical   .fjrlv. 

y  read,  no  doubt,  than  <'  Yeast  ^>   and    "  A. 

EngKamd\iy>^aukdxfiiimQa  V%df0^f^^'^^^}iyai/,   London. 
■  l:!'::'''-  ■'■"■  )ok  witli  a  couceaicd   motive  oi  pi  _ 
rove.     He  died  January  23d,  1875. 


A    ■ 

that  we  :)ple  amonp 


among 
','ho  was  ^ 
, and   hen 
antumnal  < 
me  death    of 
even   to    the 


ies,  and  the  roc 


brown  moors,  ome    her  with  song' 

■■Mid in j^-    to  O  '  "    ■"   -'th    Sw^' 


CHARLES   KINGSLEY  2435 

the  return  of  spring,  a  mock  battle  between  summer  and  winter, 
and  welcomed  the  returning  splendor  of  the  sun  with  dancing 
and  mutual  feasting,  rejoicing  that  a  better  season  for  fishing 
and  hunting  was  approaching  ?  To  those  simpler  children  of  a 
simpler  age,  in  more  direct  contact  with  the  daily  and  yearly- 
facts  of  nature,  and  more  dependent  on  them  for  their  bodily 
food  and  life,  winter  and  spring  were  the  two  great  facts  of  ex- 
istence; the  symbols,  the  one  of  death,  the  other  of  life;  and  the 
battle  between  the  two  —  the  battle  of  the  sun  with  darkness,  of 
winter  with  spring,  of  death  with  life,  of  bereavement  with  love 
—  lay  at  the  root  of  all  their  myths  and  all  their  creeds.  Surely 
a  change  has  come  over  our  fancies.  The  seasons  are  little  to 
us  now.  We  are  nearly  as  comfortable  in  winter  as  in  summer, 
or  in  spring.  Nay,  we  have  begun,  of  late,  to  grumble  at  the 
two  latter  as  much  as  at  the  former,  and  talk  (and  not  without 
excuse  at  times)  of  "the  treacherous  month  of  May,**  and  of  "sum- 
mer having  set  in  with  its  usual  severity.**  We  work  for  the  most 
part  in  cities  and  towns,  and  the  seasons  pass  by  us  unheeded. 
May  and  June  are  spent  by  most  educated  people  anywhere  rather 
than  among  birds  and  flowers.  They  do  not  escape  into  the 
country  till  the  elm  hedges  are  growing  black,  and  the  song  birds 
silent,  and  the  hay  cut,  and  all  the  virgin  bloom  of  the  country 
has  passed  into  a  sober  and  matronly  ripeness  —  if  not  into  the 
sere  and  yellow  leaf.  Our  very  landscape  painters,  till  Creswick 
arose  and  recalled  to  their  minds  the  fact  that  trees  were  some- 
times green,  were  wont  to  paint  few  but  brown  autumnal  scenes. 
As  for  the  song  of  birds,  of  which  in  the  Middle  Age  no  poet 
could  say  enough,  our  modern  poets  seem  to  be  forgetting  that 
birds  ever  sing. 

It  was  not  so  of  old.  The  climate,  perhaps,  was  more  severe 
than  now;  the  transition  from  winter  to  spring  more  sudden,  like 
that  of  Scandinavia  now.  Clearage  of  forests  and  drainage  of 
land  have  equalized  our  seasons,  or  rather  made  them  more  un- 
certain. More  broken  winters  are  followed  by  more  broken 
springs;  and  May-day  is  no  longer  a  marked  point  to  be  kept  as 
a  festival  by  all  childlike  hearts.  The  merry  month  of  May  is 
merry  only  in  stage  songs.  The  May  garlands  and  dances  are 
all  but  gone;  the  borrowed  plate,  and  the  milkmaids  who  bor- 
rowed it,  gone  utterly.  No  more  does  Mrs.  Pepys  go  to  "  lie  at 
Woolwich,  in  order  to  a  little  ayrc  and  to  gather  May-dew  '*  for 
her  complexion,  by  Mrs.  Turner's  advice.     The  Maypole   is  gone 


2436  CHARLES  KINGSLEY 

likewise;  and  never  more  shall  the  Puritan  soul  of  a  Stubbs  be 
aroused  in  indignation  at  seeing  "against  Maie,  every  parish, 
towne,  and  village  assemble  themselves  together,  both  men, 
women,  and  children,  old  and  young,  all  indifferently,  and  goe 
into  the  woodes  and  groves,  hilles  and  mountaines,  where  they 
spend  the  night  in  pastyme  and  in  the  morning  they  returne, 
bringing  with  them  birch  bowes  and  braunches  of  trees  to  deck 
their  assembly  withal.  .  .  .  They  have  twentie  or  fourtie  yoke 
of  oxen,  every  oxe  having  a  sweete  nosegay  of  flowers  tyed  on 
the  tippe  of  his  homes,  and  these  draw  home  this  Maypole  (this 
stincking  idol  rather)  which  is  covered  all  over  with  flowers  and 
hearbes  with  two  or  three  hundred  men,  women,  and  children  fol- 
lowing it  with  great  devotion.  .  .  .  And  then  they  fall  to  ban- 
quet and  feast,  daunce  and  leap  about  it,  as  the  heathen  people 
did  at  the  dedication  of  their  idols,  whereof  this  is  a  perfect  pat- 
tern, or  a  thing  itself.** 

This,  and  much  more,  says  poor  Stubbs,  in  his  "Anatomic  of 
Abuses,**  and  had,  no  doubt,  good  reason  enough  for  his  virtu- 
ous indignation  at  May-day  scandals.  But  people  may  be  made 
dull  without  being  made  good;  and  the  direct  and  only  eflEect  of 
putting  down  May  games  and  such  like  was  to  cut  o&  the  dwell- 
ers in  towns  from  all  healthy  communion  with  nature,  and  leave 
them  to  mere  sottishness  and  brutality. 

Yet  perhaps  the  May  games  died  out,  partly  because  the  feel- 
ings which  had  given  rise  to  them  died  out  before  improved 
personal  comforts.  Of  old,  men  and  women  fared  hardly,  and 
slept  cold;  and  were  thankful  to  Almighty  God  for  every  beam 
of  sunshine  which  roused  them  out  of  their  long  hybernation; 
thankful  for  every  flower  and  every  bird  which  reminded  them 
that  joy  was  stronger  than  sorrow,  and  life  than  death.  With 
the  spring  came  not  only  labor,  but  enjoyment :  — 

«In  the  spring,  the  young  man's  fancy  lightly  turned  to  thoughts  of 
love,** 

as  lads  and  lassies,  who  had  been  pining  for  each  other  by  their 
winter  firesides,  met  again,  like  Daphnis  and  Chloe,  by  shauw 
and  lea;  and  learned  to  sing  from  the  songs  of  birds,  and  to  be 
faithful  from  their  faithfulness. 

Then  went  out  troops  of  fair  damsels  to  seek  spring  garlands 
in  the  forest,  as  Scheffel  has  lately  sung  once  more  in  his  "  Frau 
Aventiure**:    and    while    the   dead    leaves   rattled    beneath   their 


CHARLES  KINGSLEY  2437 

feet,  hymned  "  La  Regine  Avrillouse "  to  the  music  of  some 
Minnesinger,  whose  song  was  as  the  song  of  birds;  to  whom  the 
birds  were  friends,  fellow-lovers,  teachers,  mirrors  of  all  which 
he  felt  within  himself  of  joyful  and  tender,  true  and  pure ;  friends 
to  be  fed  hereafter  (as  Walther  von  der  Vogelweide  had  them 
fed)  with  crumbs  upon  his  grave. 

True  melody,  it  must  be  remembered,  is  unknown,  at  least  at 
present,  in  the  tropics,  and  peculiar  to  the  races  of  those  tem- 
perate climes,  into  which  the  song  birds  come  in  spring.  It  is 
hard  to  say  why.  Exquisite  songsters,  and  those,  strangely,  of 
an  European  type,  may  be  heard  anywhere  in  tropical  American 
forests;  but  native  races  whose  hearts  their  song  can  touch  are 
either  extinct  or  yet  to  come.  Some  of  the  old  German  Minne- 
lieder,  on  the  other  hand,  seem  actually  copied  from  the  songs 
of  birds.  "  Tanderadei  **  does  not  merely  ask  the  nightingale  to 
tell  no  tales;  it  repeats,  in  its  cadences,  the  nightingale's  song,  as 
the  old  Minnesinger  heard  when  he  nestled  beneath  the  lime  tree 
with  his  love.  They  are  often  almost  as  inarticulate,  these  old 
singers,  as  the  birds  from  whom  they  copied  their  notes;  the 
thinnest  chain  of  thought  links  together  some  bird-like  refrain; 
but  they  make  up  for  their  want  of  logic  and  reflection  by  the 
depth  of  their  passion,  the  perfectness  of  their  harmony  with  na- 
ture. The  inspired  Swabian,  wandering  in  the  pine  forest,  listens 
to  the  blackbird's  voice  till  it  becomes  his  own  voice;  and  he 
breaks  out,  with  the  very  carol  of  the  blackbird  — 

«  Vogele  t?n    Tannenwald  pfeifet  so  hell. 
Pfeifet  de   Wald  aus  und  ein,  wo  wird  mein  Schatze  scin? 
Vogele  im   Tannenwald  Pfeifet  so  hell.  '* 

And  he  has  nothing  more  to  say.  That  is  his  whole  soul  for  the 
time  being;  and,  like  a  bird,  he  sings  it  over  and  over  again, 
and  never  tires. 

Another,  a  Nieder-Rheinischer,  watches  the  moon  rise  over 
the  Lowenburg,  and  thinks  upon  his  love  within  the  castle  hall 
till  he  breaks  out  in  a  strange,  sad,  tender  melody  —  not  without 
stateliness  and  manly  confidence  in  himself  and  his  beloved  —  in 
the  true  strain  of  the  nightingale:  — 

"  Versiflhim  grht  d*r  Mond  amf, 
Blau,  blau,  Blutneletn, 
Durch  Silberwolkchen  fuhrt  scin  iMuf. 
Rosen  im   Thai,  Madcl  im  Saal,  O  sc lions te  Rosa!     .     .     . 


_,_^-,8  CHARLES  KINGSLEY 

Und  siehst  du  mich, 

Und  siehst  du  sie, 

Blau,  blau,  Blumelein, 

Zwei  treu're  Herzen  sah'st  du  nie; 

Rosen  im   Thai  u.  s.  w?'* 

There  is  little  sense  in  the  words,  doubtless,  according  to  our 
modern  notions  of  poetry;  but  they  are  like  enough  to  the  long, 
plaintive  notes  of  the  nightingale  to  say  all  that  the  poet  has  to 
say,  again  and  again  through  all  his  stanzas. 

Thus  the  birds  were,  to  the  mediaeval  singers,  their  orchestra, 
or  rather  their  chorus;  from  the  birds  they  caught  their  melo- 
dies;   the  sounds  which  the  birds  gave   them   they  rendered   into 

words. 

And  the  same  bird  keynote  surely  is  to  be  traced  in  the  early 
English  and  Scotch  songs  and  ballads,  with  their  often  meaning- 
less refrains,  sung  for  the  mere  pleasure  of  singing:  — 


Or— 


Or— 


«Binnorie,  O  Binnorie.* 


«With  a  hey  lillelu  and  a  how  lo  Ian, 
And  the  birk  and  the  broom  blooms  bonnie.* 


«She  sat  down  below  a  thorn, 
Fine  flowers  in   the  valley, 
And  there  has  she  her  sweet  babe  bom, 
And  the  green  leaves  they  grow  rarely. » 

Or  even  those  « f al-la-las, »  and  other  nonsense  refrains,  which,  if 
they  were   not   meant  to   imitate  bird  notes,  for  what  were   they 

meant  ? 

In  the  old  ballads,  too,  one  may  hear  the  bird   keynote.      He 
who  wrote  (and  a  great  rhymer  he  was) 

«As  I  was  walking  all  alane, 
I  heard  twa  corbies  making  a  mane," 

had  surely  the  « mane »  of  the  « corbies »  in  his  ears  before  it 
shaped  itself  into  words  in  his  mind;  and  he  had  listened  to 
many  a  « woodwele  »  who  first  thrummed  on  harp,  or  fiddled  on 
crowd,  how  — 


CHARLES   KINGSLEY  2439 

In  summer,  when  the  shawes  be  shene 

And  leaves  be  large  and  long. 
It  is  full  merry  in  fair  forest 

To  hear  the  fowles'  song. 

*  The  woodwele  sang,  and  wolde  not  cease 
Sitting  upon  the  spray; 
So  loud  it  wakened  Robin  Hood 
In  the  greenwood  where  he  lay.'* 

And  Shakespeare  —  are  not  his  scraps  of  song  saturated  with 
these  same  bird  notes?  "Where  the  bee  sucks,'*  "When  daisies 
pied,"  "Under  the  greenwood  tree,"  "It  was  a  lover  and  his  lass," 
"  When  daffodils  begin  to  peer, "  "  Ye  spotted  snakes, "  have  all  a 
ring  in  them  which  was  caught  not  in  the  roar  of  London,  or 
babble  of  the  Globe  Theatre,  but  in  the  woods  of  Charlecote  and 
along  the  banks  of  Avon,  from 

"  The  ouzel-cock  so  black  of  hue, 
With  orange-tawny  bill; 
The  throstle  with  his  note  so  true; 

The  wren  with  little  quill; 
The  finch,  the  sparrow,  and  the  lark, 
The  plain-song  cuckoo  gray  "  — 

and  all  the  rest  of  the  birds  of  the  air. 

Why  is  it,  again,  that  so  few  of  our  modern  songs  are  truly 
songful,  and  fit  to  be  set  to  music  ?  Is  it  not  that  the  writers  of 
them  —  persons  often  of  much  taste  and  poetic  imagination  — 
have  gone  for  their  inspiration  to  the  intellect,  rather  than  to 
the  ear  ?  That  (as  Shelley  does  by  the  skylark,  and  Wordsworth 
by  the  cuckoo),  instead  of  trying  to  sing  like  the  birds,  they 
only  think  and  talk  about  the  birds,  and  therefore,  however 
beautiful  and  true  the  thoughts  and  words  may  be,  they  are  not 
song  ?  Surely  they  have  not,  like  the  mediaeval  songsters,  studied 
the  speech  of  the  birds,  the  ])rimcval  teachers  of  melody;  nor  even 
melodies  already  extant,  round  which,  as  round  a  framework  of 
pure  music,  their  thoughts  and  images  might  cry.stallizc  tlicm- 
selves,  certain  thereby  of  becoming  musical  likewise.  The  best 
modern  song  writers,  Burns  and  Moore,  were  inspired  by  their 
old  national  airs;  and  followed  them,  Moore  at  least,  with  a  rev- 
erent fidelity,  which  has  had  its  full  reward.  Tlicy  wrote  words 
to  music;  and  not,  as  modern   poets  are    wont,  wrote    the    words 


Z440  CHARLES  KINGSLEY 

first,  and  left  others  to  set  music  to  the  words.  They  were 
right;  and  we  are  wrong.  As  long  as  song  is  to  be  the  expres- 
sion of  pure  emotion,  so  long  it  must  take  its  key  from  music, — 
which  is  already  pure  emotion,  untranslated  into  the  grosser 
medium  of  thought  and  speech  —  often  (as  in  the  case  of  Mendels- 
sohn's ^*  Songs  without  Words  '^)  not  to  be  translated  into  it  at  all. 
And  so  it  may  be,  that  in  some  simpler  age,  poets  may  go 
back,  like  the  old  Minnesingers,  to  the  birds  of  the  forest,  and 
learn  of  them  to  sing. 

From  «  Prose  Idyls.  »    Macmillan  &  Co. 


2441 


PRINCE   KRAPOTKIN 

(1 842-) 

Jeter  Krapotkin,  scientist  and  nihilist,  was  bom  at  Moscow, 
Russia,  in  1842.  His  family  belongs  to  the  oldest  and  highest 
nobility  of  Russia,  and  he  himself  was  bred  at  the  imperial 
court,  and,  after  completing  his  studies  at  the  university,  was  ap- 
pointed Chamberlain  to  the  Czarina.  His  standing  in  science  was  at- 
tested by  his  appointment  as  Secretary  of  the  Russian  Geographical 
Society,  but  when  he  adopted  the  <<  individualistic  **  views  taught  by 
Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  and  the  Concord  School  of  Philosophy  in 
America,  the  Russian  government  arrested  him.  After  three  years' 
imprisonment,  he  escaped  in  1876  to  France,  where  he  was  again  im- 
prisoned. Since  his  release  by  the  French  authorities,  he  has  lived 
chiefly  in  England,  supporting  himself  by  writing  on  scientific,  literary, 
and  political  topics  for  the  reviews  and  newspapers.  His  views  of 
<* individual  sovereignty'^  do  not  seem  to  be  as  extreme  as  those  held 
at  one  time  by  Emerson  and  William  Lloyd  Garrison.  He  leans 
rather  to  the  idea  that  if  all  central  power  of  taxation  and  coercion 
were  abolished,  production  could  be  carried  on  most  effectively  under 
municipal  organization.  Among  extremists  in  political  theorizing,  he 
may  be  considered  representing  the  extreme  of  opposition  to  the  the- 
ories of  Karl  Marx. 


THE  COURSE  OF   CIVILIZATION 

THROUGHOUT    thc   wliolc    history   of    our    civilization,   two    tradi- 
tions,   two   opposed    tendencies,   have   been   in   conflict:   the 
Roman  tradition  and  the  popular  tradition;  the  imperial  tra- 
dition and  the  federalist  tradition;   the  authoritarian  one  and  the 
libertarian  one. 

History  has  not  been  an  uninterrupted  evolution.  At  difTercnt 
intervals  evolution  has  been  broken  in  a  certain  region,  to  begin 
again  elsewhere.  Egypt,  Asia,  the  banks  of  the  Mediterranean, 
Central  Europe,  have  in  turn  been  the  scene  of  historical  develop- 
ment. But  in  every  case,  the  first  phase  of  the  evolution  has 
been  the  primitive  tribe,  passing  on  into  a  village  commune,  then 
into  that  of  the  free  city,  and  finally  dying  out  when  it  reached 
the  phase  of  thc  state. 


2442  PRINCE   KRAPOTKIN 

In  Egypt  civilization  began  by  the  primitive  tribe.  It  reached 
the  village  community  phasis,  and  later  on  the  period  of  free 
cities;  still  later  that  of  the  state,  which,  after  a  flourishing  period, 
resulted  in  the  death  of  the  country. 

The  evolution  began  again  in  Assyria,  in  Persia,  in  Palestine. 
Again  it  traversed  the  same  phasis:  the  tribe,  the  village  com- 
munity, the  free  city,  the  all-powerful  state,  and  finally  the  result 
was  —  death ! 

A  new  civilization  then  sprang  up  in  Greece.  Always  begin- 
ning by  the  tribe,  it  slowly  reached  the  village  commune,  then 
the  period  of  republican  cities.  In  these  cities  civilization  reached 
its  highest  summits.  But  the  East  brought  to  them  its  poisoned 
breath,  its  traditions  of  despotism.  Wars  and  conquests  created 
Alexander's  empire  of  Macedonia.  The  state  enthroned  itself, 
the  bloodsucker  grew,  killed  all  civilization,  and  then  came  — 
death ! 

Rome  in  its  turn  restored  civilization.  Again  we  find  the 
primitive  tribe  at  its  origin;  then  the  village  commune;  then  the 
free  city.  At  that  stage  it  reached  the  apex  of  its  civilization. 
But  then  came  the  state,  the  empire,  and  then  —  death! 

On  the  ruins  of  the  Roman  Empire,  Celtic,  Germanic,  Slavo- 
nian, and  Scandinavian  tribes  began  civilization  anew.  Slowly  the 
primitive  tribe  elaborated  its  institutions  and  reached  the  village 
commune.  It  remained  at  that  stage  till  the  twelfth  century. 
Then  rose  the  republican  cities  which  produced  the  glorious  ex- 
pansion of  the  human  mind,  attested  by  the  monuments  of  archi- 
tecture, the  grand  development  of  arts,  the  discoveries  that  laid 
the  basis  of  natural  sciences.     But  then  came  the  state. 

Will  it  again  produce  death  ?  Of  course  it  will,  unless  we  re- 
constitute society  on  a  libertarian  and  anti-imperial  basis.  Either 
the  state  will  be  destroyed  and  a  new  life  will  begin  in  thou- 
sands of  centres,  on  the  principle  of  an  energetic  initiative  of  the 
individual,  of  groups,  and  of  free  agreement;  or  else  the  state 
must  crush  the  individual  and  local  life,  it  must  become  the  mas- 
ter of  all  the  domains  of  human  activity;  must  bring  with  it  its 
wars  and  internal  struggles  for  the  possession  of  power,  its  surface 
revolutions  which  only  change  one  tyrant  for  another,  and  inev- 
itably, at  the  end  of  this  evolution, —  death! 

Choose  yourselves  which  of  the  two  issues  you  prefer. 

From  «The  State:    Its  Historic  R61e.» 


2443 


JEAN    DE   LA   BRUYERE 

(1645-1696) 

^EAN  DE  La  Bruyere  translated  Theophrastus  and  published 
his  own  «  Characters »  with  his  translations  from  the  Greek 
in  1688.  («Les  Caracteres  de  Theophraste  avec  les  Carac- 
teres  et  les  Moeurs  de  ce  Siecle.»  Michallet.  Paris.)  As  Sir  Thomas 
Overbury's  little  volume  of  «  Characters. »  suggested  by  those  of  Theo- 
phrastus, appeared  seventy-four  years  (1614)  before  the  date  of  the 
first  edition  of  La  Bruyere's,  the  greater  celebrity  of  the  French  wit 
scarcely  entitles  him  to  be  called  «the  founder  of  the  modern  school 
of  Theophrastus. »  His  own  countrymen,  however,  will  not  admit  the 
claim  of  any  one  else  to  rank  with  him  in  his  class.  In  wit  and  sen- 
tentiousness  he  is  superior  to  Overbury,  Earle,  Fuller,  and  Felltham, 
the  leading  English  exponents  of  the  methods  of  Theophrastus,  but 
the  circumstance  to  which  chiefly  he  owed  his  celebrity  with  his  own 
generation  is  not  an  advantage  in  his  work  as  it  appeals  to  posterity. 
He  sketched  «  Characters,"  not  as  types  of  human  nature,  but  as  por- 
traits of  actual  men  and  women,  his  friends,  his  enemies,  or  his  rivals 
in  the  Parisian  world  of  letters  and  politics.  While  the  age  in  which 
he  wrote  was  that  of  Bossuet,  Fenelon,  Boileau,  Racine,  Corneille, 
Fontenelle,  the  great  Conde,  and  others  scarcely  less  famous,  those 
whose  traits  he  described  without  naming  them  did  not  become  typ- 
ical under  his  pen.  Thus  while  to  Frenchmen  this  part  of  his  work 
has  an  enduring  antiquarian  interest,  it  does  not  appeal  to  the  gen- 
eral reader  outside  of  France,  as  do  his  biting  epigrams  on  the  faults 
and  foibles  of  common  humanity.  He  seems  to  have  set  down  his 
thoughts  as  they  came  into  his  mind,  without  attempting  to  give 
them  any  other  connection  than  that  of  an  underlying  idea.  He  will 
condense  a  page  of  thought  into  a  three-line  epigram,  or  expand  three 
lines  into  an  essay  of  a  page,  at  his  own  pleasure,  without  asking 
the  reader's  consent.  The  result  is  pleasing,  and  though  he  deals  too 
seldom  with  the  good  in  human  nature,  the  subtle  quality  of  the 
wit  with  which  he  discovers  and  displays  the  evil  prevents  him  from 
being  classed  either  as  a  cynic  or  a  scold. 

It  is  said  that  he  was  the  master  of  Addison  in  literature;  but  if 
Addison  learned  from  him  subtlety  in  the  display  of  wit.  he  did  not 
learn  the  sarcasm  which  above  everything  else  is  characteristic  of 
whatever  La  Bruyere  writes  in  dealing  with  human  nature.     He  lacks 


2444  JEAN  DE  LA  BRUYfiRE 

Addison's  good   fellowship,  but  he  is  keener  and  more  pungent  than 
any  writer  of  the  Spectator  school. 

He  was  born  at  Paris  in  August,  1645,  and  trained  for  the  bar,  but 
he  supported  himself  chiefly  by  work  in  the  government  revenue  serv- 
ice and  as  a  tutor  in  the  family  of  the  Prince  of  Conde,  with  whom 
he  was  a  favorite.  When  the  first  edition  of  the  <<  Caracteres  *  appeared 
in  1688,  they  were  only  three  hundred  and  eighty-six  in  number;  but 
as  their  popularity  was  immediate,  he  added  to  them  in  successive  edi- 
tions until  in  the  ninth,  which  was  in  press  at  the  time  of  his  death 
(May  loth,  1696),  they  had  been  increased  to  over  a  thousand.  The 
names  of  those  he  satirized  were  not  given,  but  some  were  easily 
identified  by  their  friends,  and  others  maliciously  by  their  enemies,  so 
that  La  Bruyere's  increase  in  celebrity  was  at  the  expense  of  his 
popularity.  He  had  a  long  struggle  with  his  enemies  in  the  acad- 
emy before  he  finally  gained  admission.  They  voted  him  down 
three  times  in  a  single  year,  and  on  one  occasion  reduced  the  num- 
ber of  his  supporters  to  seven.  As  Boileau,  Bossuet,  and  Racine  were 
among  the  seven  who  upheld  him  in  his  claim  to  a  place  among  the 
*  Immortals,  ^*  there  is  no  room  to  complain  that  the  judgment  of 
posterity  on  him  was  not  adequately  represented  in  the  contest. 

W.  V.  B. 


ON  THE  CHARACTER  OF  MANKIND 

LET  US  not  be  angry  with  men  when  we  see  them  cruel,  un- 
grateful, unjust,  proud,  egotists,  and  forgetful  of  others; 
they  are  made  so;  it  is  their  nature;  we  might  just  as  well 
quarrel  with  a  stone  for  falling  to  the  gound,  or  with  a  fire 
when  the  flames  ascend. 

In  one  sense  men  are  not  fickle,  or  only  in  trifles ;  they  change 
their  habits,  language,  outward  appearance,  their  rules  of  pro- 
priety, and  sometimes  their  taste;  but  they  always  preserve  their 
bad  morals,  and  adhere  tenaciously  to  what  is  ill  and  to  their 
indifference  for  virtue. 

Stoicism  is  a  mere  fancy,  a  fiction,  like  Plato's  « Republic.  ^^ 
The  Stoics  pretend  a  man  may  laugh  at  poverty;  not  feel  in- 
sults, ingratitude,  loss  of  property,  relatives,  and  friends;  look 
unconcernedly  on  death,  and  regard  it  as  a  matter  of  indifference 
which  ought  neither  to  make  him  merry  nor  melancholy;  nor  let 
pleasure  or  pain  conquer  him;  be  wounded  or  burned  without 
breathing  the  slightest  sigh  or  shedding  a  single  tear;  and  this 
phantasm  of  courage  and  imaginary  firmness  they  are  pleased  to 


JEAN  DE   LA  BRUYIEIRE  2445 

call  a  philosopher.  They  have  left  man  with  the  same  faults 
they  found  in  him,  and  did  not  blame  his  smallest  foible.  In- 
stead of  depicting  vice  as  something  terrible  or  ridiculous,  which 
might  have  corrected  him,  they  have  limned  an  idea  of  per- 
fection and  heroism  of  which  man  is  not  capable,  and  they 
exhorted  him  to  aim  at  what  is  impossible.  Thus,  the  philoso- 
pher that  is  to  be,  but  will  never  exist  except  in  imagination, 
finds  himself  naturally,  and  without  any  exertions  of  his  own, 
above  all  events  and  all  ills;  the  most  excruciating  fit  of  the 
gout,  the  most  severe  attack  of  colic,  cannot  draw  from  him 
the  least  complaint;  heaven  and  earth  may  be  overturned,  with- 
out dragging  him  along  in  their  downfall;  and  he  remains  calm 
and  collected  amidst  the  ruins  of  the  universe,  whilst  a  man 
really  beside  himself  utters  loud  exclamations,  despairs,  looks; 
fierce,  and  is  in  an  agony  for  the  loss  of  a  dog  or  for  a  china 
dish  broken  into  pieces.     .     .     . 

Power,  favor,  genius,  riches,  dignity,  nobility,  force,  industry, 
capacity,  virtue,  vice,  weakness,  stupidity,  poverty,  impotence, 
plebeianism,  and  servility  generally  are  combined  in  men  in  end- 
less variety.  These  qualities  mixed  together  in  a  thousand 
various  manners,  and  compensating  one  another  in  many  ways, 
form  the  difiEerent  states  and  conditions  of  human  life.  More- 
over, people  who  are  acquainted  with  each  other's  strength  and 
weakness  act  reciprocally,  for  they  believe  it  their  duty;  they 
know  their  equals,  are  conscious  that  some  men  are  their  su- 
periors, and  that  they  are  superior  to  some  others;  and  hence 
familiarity,  respect  or  deference,  pride  or  contempt.  This  is  the 
reason  why,  in  places  of  public  resort,  we  see  each  moment  some 
persons  we  wish  to  accost  or  bow  to,  and  others  we  pretend  not 
to  know,  and  still  less  desire  to  meet;  and  why  we  are  proud  of 
being  with  the  first  and  ashamed  of  the  others.  Hence  it  even 
happens  that  the  very  person  with  whom  you  think  it  an  honor 
to  be  seen,  and  with  whom  you  are  desirous  to  converse,  deems 
you  troublesome  and  leaves  you;  and  that  often  the  very  person 
who  blushes  when  he  meets  others  receives  the  same  treatment 
when  others  meet  him,  and  that  a  man  who  treated  others  with 
contempt  is  himself  disdained,  for  it  is  common  enough  to 
despise  those  who  despise  us.  How  wretched  is  such  a  be- 
havior; and  since  it  is  certain  that  in  this  strange  interchange 
we  gain  on  one  side  what  wc  lose  on  anotlier,  should  we  not  do 
better  to  abandon  all  haughtiness  and  pride,  qualities  so  unsuited 


2446  JEAN   DE    LA    BRUYERE 

to  frail  humanity,  and  make  an  arrangement  to  treat  one  an- 
other with  mutual  kindness,  by  which  we  should  at  once  gain 
the  advantage  of  never  being  mortified  ourselves,  and  the  hap- 
piness, which  is  just  as  great,  of  never  mortifying  others  ? 

Instead  of  being  frightened,  or  even  ashamed,  at  being  called 
a  philosopher,  everybody  in  this'  world  ought  to  have  a  strong 
tincture  of  philosophy ;  it  suits  every  one ;  its  practice  is  useful  to 
people  of  all  ages,  sexes,  and  conditions;  it  consoles  us  for  the 
happiness  of  others,  for  the  promotion  of  those  whom  we  think 
undeserving,  for  failures,  and  the  decay  of  strength  and  beauty; 
it  steels  us  against  poverty,  age,  sickness,  and  death,  against  fools 
and  buffoons;  it  will  help  us  to  pass  away  our  life  without  a 
wife,  or  to  bear  with  the  one  with  whom  we  have  to  live. 

Men  are  one  hour  overjoyed  at  trifles,  and  the  next  overcome 
with  grief  for  a  mere  disappointment;  nothing  is  more  unequal 
and  incoherent  than  the  emotions  stirring  their  hearts  and  minds  in 
so  short  a  time.  If  they  would  set  no  higher  value  on  the  things 
of  this  world  than   they  really  deserve,  this  evil  would  be  cured. 

It  is  as  difficult  to  find  a  vain  man  who  believes  himself  as 
happy  as  he  deserves,  as  a  modest  man  who  believes  himself  too 
unhappy. 

When  I  contemplate  the  fortune  of  princes  and  of  their  min- 
isters, which  is  not  mine,  I  am  prevented  from  thinking  myself 
unhappy  by  considering,  at  the  same  time,  the  fate  of  the  vine 
dresser,  the  soldier,  and  the  stonecutter. 

There  is  but  one  real  misfortune  which  can  befall  a  man,  and 
that  is  to  find  himself  at  fault,  and  to  have  something  to  re- 
proach himself  with. 

The  generality  of  men  are  more  capable  of  great  efforts  to 
obtain  their  ends  than  of  continuous  perseverance;  their  occu- 
pation and  inconstancy  deprives  them  of  the  fruits  of  the  most 
promising  beginnings;  they  are  often  overtaken  by  those  who 
started  some  time  after  them,  and  who  walk  slowly,  but  without 
intermission. 

I  almost  dare  affirm  that  men  know  better  how  to  plan  cer- 
tain measures  than  to  pursue  them,  how  to  resolve  what  they 
must  needs  do  and  say  than  to  do  or  to  say  what  is  necessary. 
A  man  is  firmly  determined  not  to  mention  a  certain  subject 
when  negotiating  some  business;  and  afterwards,  either  through 
passion,  garrulity,  or  in  the  heat  of  conversation,  it  is  the  first 
thing  which  escapes  him. 


JEAN   DE   LA  BRUYfiRE  2447 

Men  are  indolent  in  what  is  their  particular  duty,  while  they 
think  it  very  deserving,  or  rather  while  it  pleases  their  vanity  to 
busy  themselves  about  those  things  which  do  not  concern  them, 
nor  suit  their  condition  of  life  or  character. 

There  is  as  much  difference  between  a  heterogeneous  charac- 
ter a  man  adopts  and  his  real  character  as  there  is  between  a 
mask  and  a  countenance  of  flesh  and  blood. 

Telephus  has  some  intelligence,  but  ten  times  less,  if  rightly 
computed,  than  he  imagines  he  has;  therefore,  in  everything  he 
says,  does,  meditates,  and  projects,  he  goes  ten  times  beyond  his 
capacity,  and  thus  always  exceeds  the  true  measure  of  his  intellec- 
tual power  and  grasp.  And  this  argument  is  well  founded.  He 
is  limited  by  a  barrier,  as  it  were,  and  should  be  warned  not  to 
pass  it;  but  he  leaps  over  it,  launches  out  of  his  sphere,  and 
though  he  knows  his  own  weakness,  always  displays  it;  he  speaks 
about  what  he  does  not  understand,  or  badly  understands; 
attempts  things  above  his  power,  and  aims  at  what  is  too  much 
for  him;  he  thinks  himself  the  equal  of  the  very  best  men  ever 
seen.  Whatever  is  good  and  commendable  in  him  is  obscured 
by  an  affectation  of  doing  something  great  and  wonderful;  people 
can  easily  see  what  he  is  not,  but  have  to  guess  what  he  really 
is.  He  is  a  man  who  never  measures  his  ability,  and  does  not 
know  himself;  his  true  character  is  not  to  be  satisfied  with  the 
one  that  suits  him,  and  which  is  his  own. 

The  intelligence  of  a  highly  cultivated  man  is  not  always  the 
same,  and  has  its  ebbs  and  flows;  sometimes  he  is  full  of  anima- 
tion, but  cannot  keep  it  up;  then,  if  he  be  wise,  he  will  say  little, 
not  write  at  all,  and  not  endeavor  either  to  draw  upon  his  imagi- 
nation, or  try  to  please.  Does  a  man  sing  who  has  a  cold;  and 
should  he  not  rather  wait  till  he  recover  his  voice  ? 

A  blockhead  is  an  automaton,  a  piece  of  machinery  moved  by 
springs  and  weights,  always  turning  him  about  in  one  direction; 
he  always  displays  the  same  equanimity,  is  uniform,  and  never 
alters;  if  you  have  seen  him  once  you  have  seen  him  as  he  ever 
was,  and  will  be;  he  is  at  best  but  like  a  lowing  ox  or  a  whist- 
ling blackbird;  I  may  say  he  acts  according  to  the  persistence 
and  doggedncss  of  his  nature  and  species.  What  you  sec  least 
is  his  torpid  soul,  which  is  never  stirring,  but  always  dormant. 
A  blockhead  never  dies;  or  if,  according  to  our  manner  of 
speaking,  he  dies  at  one  time  or  other,  I  may  truly  say  he  gains 
by  it,  and  that,  when  others  die,  he  begins  to  live.     His  mind  then 


2448  JEAN  DE  LA  BRUYfiRE 

thinks,  reasons,  draws  inferences  and  conclusions,  judges,  foresees, 
and  does  everything  it  never  did  before;  it  finds  itself  released 
from  a  lump  of  flesh  in  which  it  seemed  buried  without  having 
anything  to  do,  and  without  any  motion,  or  at  least  any  worthy 
of  that  name;  I  should  almost  say  it  blushes  to  have  lodged  in 
such  a  body,  as  well  as  for  its  own  crude  and  imperfect  organs, 
to  which  it  has  been  shackled  so  long,  and  with  which  it  could 
only  produce  a  blockhead  or  a  fool.  Now  it  is  equal  to  the 
greatest  of  those  minds  which  animated  the  bodies  of  the  clever- 
est or  the  most  intellectual  men,  and  the  mind  of  the  merest 
clodhopper  is  no  longer  to  be  distinguished  from  those  of  Conde, 
Richelieu,    Pascal,   and  Lingendes.      .     .     . 

Timon,  or  the  misanthrope,  may  have  an  austere  and  savage 
mind,  but  outwardly  he  is  polite,  and  even  ceremonious;  he  does 
not  lose  all  command  over  himself,  and  does  not  become  famil- 
iar with  other  men;  on  the  contrary,  he  treats  them  politely  and 
gravely,  and  in  a  manner  that  does  not  encourage  any  freedom 
to  be  taken;  he  does  not  desire  to  be  better  acquainted  with 
them  nor  to  make  friends  of  them,  and  is  somewhat  like  a  lady 
visiting  another  lady. 

Reason  is  ever  allied  to  truth,  and  is  almost  identical  with  it; 
only  one  way  leads  to  it,  but  a  thousand  roads  can  lead  us 
astray.  The  study  of  wisdom  is  not  so  extensive  as  that  of  fools 
and  coxcombs;  he  who  has  seen  none  but  polite  and  reasonable 
men,  either  does  not  know  men,  or  knows  them  only  by  halves. 
Whatever  difference  may  be  noticed  in  disposition  and  manners, 
intercourse  with  the  world  and  politeness  produce  the  same  ap- 
pearance in  all,  and  externally  make  men  resemble  one  another 
in  some  way  which  mutually  pleases,  and,  being  common  to  all, 
leads  us  to  believe  that  everything  else  is  in  the  same  proportion. 
A  man  on  the  contrary,  who  mixes  with  the  common  people,  or 
retires  into  the  country,  will,  if  he  has  eyes,  in  a  short  time 
make  some  strange  discoveries,  and  see  things  which  are  new  to 
him,  and  which  he  never  before  imagined  existed;  gradually  and 
by  experience  he  increases  his  knowledge  of  humanity,  and  al- 
most calculates  in  how  many  different  ways  man  may  become 
unbearable. 

After  having  maturely  considered  mankind  and  found  out  the 
insincerity  of  their  thoughts,  opinions,  inclinations,  and  affections, 
we  are  compelled  to  acknowledge  that  stubbornness  does  them 
more  harm  than  inconstancy. 


JEAN   DE   LA   BRUYERE  2449 

How  many  weak,  effeminate,  careless  minds  exist  without  any 
extraordinary  faults,  and  who  yet  are  proper  subjects  for  satire! 
How  many  various  kinds  of  ridicule  are  disseminated  amongst 
the  whole  human  race,  which  by  their  very  eccentricity  are  of 
little  consequence,  and  are  not  ameliorated  by  instruction  or  mo- 
rality. Such  vices  are  individual  and  not  contagious,  and  are 
rather  personal  than  belonging  to  humanity  in  general. 

From  «  Characters.*' 


ON   HUMAN   NATURE   IN  WOMANKIND 

THE    male  and  female  sex   seldom  agree    about  the  merits  of  a 
woman,   as  their  interests  vary  too  much.      Women   do   not 
like  those  same    charms  in  one  another  which  render   them 
agreeable    to    men;  many    ways  and    means   which    kindle  in  the 
latter  the   greatest  passions   raise   among  them    aversion    and  an- 
tipathy. 

There  exists  among  some  women  an  artificial  grandeur  de- 
pending on  a  certain  way  of  moving  their  eyes,  tossing  their 
heads,  and  on  their  manner  of  walking,  which  does  not  go  fur- 
ther; it  is  like  a  dazzling  wit  which  is  deceptive,  and  is  only  ad- 
mired because  it  is  superficial.  In  a  few  others  is  to  be  found 
an  ingenuous  natural  greatness,  not  beholden  to  gestures  and 
motion,  which  springs  from  the  heart,  and  is,  as  it  were,  the  re- 
sult of  their  noble  birth;  their  merit,  as  unruffled  as  it  is  effi- 
cient, is  accompanied  by  a  thousand  virtues,  which,  in  spite  of 
all  their  modesty,  break  out  and  display  themselves  to  all  who 
can  discern  them. 

I  have  heard  some  people  say  that  they  should  like  to  be  a 
girl,  and  a  handsome  girl,  too,  from  thirteen  to  two  and  twenty, 
and  after  that  age  again  to  become  a  man. 

Some  young  ladies  are  not  sensible  of  the  advantages  of  a 
happy  disposition,  and  how  beneficial  it  would  be  to  them  to 
give  themselves  up  to  it;  they  enfeeble  these  rare  and  fragile 
gifts  which  heaven  has  given  them  by  affectation  and  by  bad 
imitation;  their  very  voice  and  gait  arc  affected;  they  fashion 
their  looks,  adorn  themselves,  consult  their  looking-glasses  to  see 
whether  they  have  sufficiently  changed  their  own  natural  ap- 
pearance, and  take  some  trouble  to  make  themselves  less  agree- 
able, 

VI— 154 


2450  JEAN   DE  LA  BRUYfiRE 

For  a  woman  to  paint  herself  red  or  white  is,  I  admit,  a 
smaller  crime  than  to  say  one  thing  and  think  another;  it  is  also 
something  less  innocent  than  to  disguise  herself  or  to  go  masquer- 
ading, if  she  does  not  pretend  to  pass  for  what  she  seems  to  be, 
but  only  thinks  of  concealing  her  personality  and  of  remaining 
unknown ; .  it  is  an  endeavor  to  deceive  the  eyes,  to  wish  to  appear 
outwardly  what  she  is  not;  it  is  a  kind  of  ** white  lie.* 

We  should  judge  of  a  woman  without  taking  into  account  her 
shoes  and  headdress,  and,  almost  as  we  measure  a  fish,  from 
head  to  tail. 

If  it  be  the  ambition  of  women  only  to  appear  handsome  in 
their  own  eyes  and  to  please  themselves,  they  are,  no  doubt, 
right  in  following  their  own  tastes  and  fancies  as  to  how  they 
should  beautify  themselves,  as  well  as  in  choosing  their  dress 
and  ornaments ;  but  if  they  desire  to  please  men,  if  it  is  for  them 
they  paint  and  besmear  themselves,  I  can  tell  them  that  all  men, 
or  nearly  all,  have  agreed  that  white  and  red  paint  makes  them 
look  hideous  and  frightful;  that  red  paint  alone  ages  and  dis- 
guises them;  and  that  these  men  hate  as  much  to  see  white  lead 
on  their  countenances  as  to  see  false  teeth  in  their  mouths  or 
balls  of  wax  to  plump  out  their  cheeks;  that  they  solemnly  pro- 
test against  all  artifices  women  employ  to  make  themselves  look 
ugly;  that  they  are  not  responsible  for  it  to  heaven,  but,  on  the 
contrary,  that  it  seems  the  last  and  infallible  means  to  reclaim 
men  from  loving  them. 

If  women  were  by  nature  what  they  make  themselves  by  art; 
if  they  were  to  lose  suddenly  all  the  freshness  of  their  complex- 
ions, and  their  faces  to  become  as  fiery  and  leaden  as  they  make 
them  with  the  red  and  the  paint  they  besmear  themselves  with, 
they  would  consider  themselves  the  most  wretched  creatures  on 
earth, 

A  coquette  is  a  woman  who  never  yields  to  the  passion  she 
has  for  pleasing,  nor  to  the  good  opinion  she  entertains  for  her 
own  beauty;  she  regards  time  and  years  only  as  things  that 
wrinkle  and  disfigure  other  women,  and  forgets  that  age  is  writ- 
ten on  her  face.  The  same  dress,  which  formerly  enhanced  her 
beauty  when  she  was  young,  now  disfigures  her,  and  shows  Ihe 
more  the  defects  of  old  age;  winning  manners  and  affectation 
cling  to  her  even  in  sorrow  and  sickness;  she  dies  dressed  in  her 
best,  and  adorned  with  gay-colored  ribbons. 

From  «  Characters. » 


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